Lost to the Sea: a Prince's Tale
by The Quell
Summary: Legolas is distraught and disillusioned in the wake of his mother's death. But further troubles await him and his kin...complex love triangles, bitter family disputes, and the horrors of war.
1. Chapter 1

Lost to the Sea: a Prince's Tale

_Legolas speaks:_

_Would you think me a madman, if I told you that my life began – truly began – not on the day of my birth amidst the soft and secret shades of Greenwood the Great, but on a cool, sad winter's morn some thirty years later? For so it was. Even now, at times, the memory of it is wont to rise pale and ghastly before my eyes, like a tall and haggard phantom, haunting the innermost paths of my mind. Indeed, there are some memories over which the erosive flow of Time may claim no sovereignty, for good or ill. We Elves are victims of memory, in so many ways. _

_I cast back in my mind to my earliest years, to my origin, and I remember so little. The images are blurred, steeped in a strange twilight haze. I knew nothing but contentment; nothing but the warm, earthy scent of my mother, and the milky glow of dawn through the soft summer leaves of my chamber. For much of my life I furiously lamented the swift and cruel termination of my childhood slumber of serenity, and it took me almost an Age of this world to truly understand that lamentation is an empty exercise, particularly when fused with rage._

_The memory I now recall holds little but pain for me; all the more acute for being a pain which has shadowed the long years of my life, a pain which has crept into my blood, my bones, my very breath. And yet, I believe that I finally possess the strength to say, with the utmost honesty, that I regret nothing, nothing at all. The old, familiar sorrows of my past, which I have known more intimately than the closest of lovers, have so greatly altered the course of my life that I could neither recognise nor imagine myself without them. And more than this, they caused my soul to stir and unfurl within me, where it once lay silent as the grave. They forced my eyes open to the world in all its glory and its cruelty, its heights and its abysses, where I had once been so blind…_

Part One - The Awakening

It was early winter of the year 3426, of the Second Age of Middle-Earth. Greenwood the Great lay silent beneath a cloud-clotted sky bruised dark by the first rumour of thunder. The high and vaulted halls of King Oropher, lord and ruler of the woodland realm, were still and echoless as the tomb. The Kingdom was plunged into silence following the grievous news that had reached them from the far realm of Imladris, which is named Rivendell in the tongues of men. The lady Líriel, wife of the Crown Prince Thranduil, had been set upon by a band of Orcs as she journeyed to visit her sister in Imladris. Her escort had barely sufficed to combat the assault, and only three of the company had escaped death or mortal injury. The lady herself had been sorely wounded, and her remaining guards had borne her with haste to Imladris. However, the journey had taken nigh on a week, and by the time Líriel reached the fair House of Elrond where she would at last receive the aid she required, the final delicate traces of breath and spirit had all but fled her broken body. She died within the hour.

The silence was vast, heavy, and immaculate. Even the breeze was bereft of voice and touch, while the branches of the ancient forest hung unruffled in their dignified, time-honoured repose. Into this cold and stricken world he ran; a small, dark, silent shape slipping like a shade between the trees. He wept as he ran, tears scarring his cheeks like ribbons of scalding glass, his long black hair streaming in a torrent of silken shadow in his wake as he flung his slender body headlong towards some blind and unknown destination. It was some hours before he collapsed, broken at last; hot, violent breaths rattling his lungs as he observed his surroundings with wide and startled eyes. He lay now in a clearing of the forest in which stood one single tree. The floor of the glade was thickly knotted with weeds and brambles; clustered red berries and strange blue and white winter flowers haunted the thickets in splashes and whorls of vivid colour.

Had Legolas stumbled blindly through the duration of his infancy and childhood in the clutches of a waking dream? Had his vision truly been so muted, so saturated in the gloaming of hazy tranquillity? The world had never before seemed so dazzling; its colours and shapes had never thrummed and coruscated with such virulent, crushing intensity. Something within him had shattered. A veil before his eyes had been torn aside, and the world towered huge and menacing before him, fizzing and frothing with fevered sensation, pulsing with a hot red madness.

Legolas hauled himself to his feet, still breathing heavily. The brambles had torn his hands and wrists, but he paid no heed to his raw and throbbing nerves. He gazed up at the vast old tree before him, and without hesitation seized the lowest-hanging branch with both hands and began to climb. It occurred to him only now that regardless of how far he ran, or how high he climbed, he could never hope to escape the excruciating grief of his mother's death. How could he expect to flee from a thing which had taken root in his very bones? He winced as this realisation hit him, his heart sagging under the pressure of so much leaden anguish. And still, he continued to climb.

He gazed out at last over the forest, clinging fiercely to a branch, having climbed a little higher than was safe – far higher than his guardians would have allowed, in any case. He dimly remembered having once watched his older sister Lilithen scale a tree twice this size almost to its tip and refuse to come down for three full days. She had misbehaved in some way and sought to avoid the chastisement of their father, Thranduil. Each time any attempt was made to extract her from her perch she had threatened to jump, and given that Lilithen was often obstinate to the point of absurdity, her claims had been given some credence. The scene had caused Legolas and his other siblings a great deal of amusement at the time – their sister roosting stubbornly in the branches, and their father stood quite livid at the base of the tree, threatening and wheedling by turns. Even when she at last came down, she insisted that it had nothing to do with her father's persuasion, and was due entirely to the fact that she was hungry.

Legolas sighed, recognising that such days belonged to a world other than this one; a world lost to him forever. The heavens hung heavy with cloud, black and swollen with rain, while the forest glowered darkly up at the impending storm. A chasm sighed open in his chest, wide and forlorn as the depths of the sad blue horizon, and he wept. His sharp ears could discern voices in the forest, calling his name. He shivered, huddling up against the hard sinews of the tree as the first drops of rain began to fall. His senses heightened to a new and terrifying pitch, buffeted by the sudden angry surge of sound and vision and sensation, he scrunched his eyes closed against the growing storm, and curled up as small as he was able.

It was some hours before he began to climb slowly down, feeling as blank and defeated as Lilithen must have done, those years before. His limbs were weak with fatigue, and began to slide on the wet branches. It occurred to him, in a detached kind of way, that he was falling – dropping through the air like a stone for what seemed like a disproportionately long time, and then crashing to the ground with a brutal jolt. A white-hot bolt of agony flashed up his leg, thrusting an involuntary cry from his lungs. He didn't care; the pain robbed him of all other sensation, and was almost a welcome respite. He could feel his consciousness fading, and he closed his eyes, ushering the darkness into his mind, and letting it spill silently into the depths of his heart and soul.

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A/N – this fic is book-based, not movie-based. So it's strictly about Legolas rather than Orlando Bloom (nothing against Orlando whatsoever, I think he makes a great Legolas, but there's a thousand other stories out there catering to people's Orli-lust and I just hoped to take this in a slightly different direction) 

Please R & R; it'll make my day!!!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – thanks so much, Nethwen! I really appreciate the feedback, and I'm so grateful that you took the time to comment. LOL, I did research the hair thing, and Legolas' hair colour isn't specified at any point in the book. His father was blond, so it's a possibility that he was too, but I really just didn't want people to be picturing Orlando Bloom and his weave!

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_My mother's death heralded the first of many awakenings within me. From that day hence, I was changed. I cannot explain it. The terrain of my mind had shifted, the patterns of my thought twisting into new and unfamiliar configurations. The change in me was so abrupt that I believe it quite alarmed my kin and acquaintances, not to mention myself. I left my childhood behind in the shadows of memory, without any hint of transition. Ridiculous as it seems to me now, I suddenly considered myself a fully-fledged adult, and quite capable of regulating my own affairs. I was both infuriated and baffled by the interference of others in my life, which, to my immense and ongoing dismay, would continue for many years. In truth I was extremely young, barely more than a child. It was nigh on twenty-five years before I was to Come of Age, and even then I would scarcely be considered advanced in years by the reckoning of my people! I was lost, terrified, and desperate, grappling with the complexities of a new and strange world, and the burden of a grief I could neither fathom nor accept. Needless to say, I had not the wisdom or the humility to realise that the death of Lady Líriel had affected others apart from myself, and in no small measure._

_It took several weeks for my ankle to mend, during which time I sat in a glowering silence being reprimanded gently for my reckless behaviour. No one had the heart, it seemed, to muster any genuine anger or disapproval towards me. I had always been a remarkably well-behaved child – sweet, mild-mannered and pliant to the wishes of my guardians. I had never been inclined towards insubordination or defiance; in truth, I do not believe the thought of it had even entered my mind. I had instinctively shied away from noise, conflict, and disharmony. It had seemed logical to fall into the place set for me, to fade silently and gently into the background. By Eru, things were about to change._

_---_

The Lady Líriel had been, for want of a more fitting description, an inherently loud woman. That is not to say that she was coarse, or obtrusive, for she was assuredly neither of those things. Yet she had never possessed the fluid and effortless grace almost universal to the Elven folk; she had been, in fact, notoriously clumsy, both in speech and demeanour. It was perhaps this curious idiosyncrasy, among other things, that had first endeared her to Prince Thranduil. They had met at a royal Ball some centuries previous. Upon entering the hall he had strode over to her without preamble and had asked her to dance, and she, overwhelmed to be so unexpectedly favoured by the Crown Prince, had promptly stumbled and fallen at his feet, soaking his fine tunic in red wine in the process. She had not been an obvious target for Thranduil's attention, perhaps. Though undeniably charming and vivacious, Líriel was neither highly born nor remarkably fair of face. She cared nothing for pomp and ceremony; openly despised any conduct she took for snobbery, and never hesitated to express her most frank and candid opinions, regardless of her social situation. Some took her for impolite, and unrefined in her manner. King Oropher had initially protested against Thranduil's choice of bride, arguing that her temperament was decidedly ill suited to the role of a Queen; but his son had made it readily apparent that he would take no wife but Líriel, and the King had finally conceded. The Lady did, perhaps, ruffle a few noble feathers during her time as Thranduil's wife, which was curious, as the Prince himself was never anything but the very paragon of unflinching restraint, self-discipline and courtesy. And yet he had seldom expressed the slightest concern or disapproval at his wife's quirks and foibles, even where they caused offence. They were what he loved about her; and were almost certainly what he missed most keenly when she was no more.

The silence left in the wake of Líriel's death had been tangible, like a hard physical imprint of her absence. It seemed to permeate the very soul, spreading like cold waters and instilling the world with a sense of loss and solitude. Yet gradually, the chill and the silence and the brittle frosts of winter had begun to thaw. The first tentative flowers of spring had now thrust their yellow-bonneted heads through the shade of the softening soil, and battalions of tender green shoots and buds densely lathered the glades and dells of Greenwood the Great, swollen and pulsing with the promise of new life. The sky no longer towered grey and brittle with cold, and had softened to a cool, diaphanous eggshell-blue, threaded with only the merest echoes of the dying winter.

Prince Tirion, the eldest of Thranduil's five children, glanced over at his four siblings sitting quietly round the dinner table, awaiting the arrival of their father. The two youngest, Maeglos and Mîrlondë, grinned impishly at each other from either side of the table. The little boy and girl had been kicking one another under the table in continuation of some game they had set in action before they had been called in to dinner. A smile tugged at the corner of Tirion's lip. He made no move to admonish the children, knowing that they would have the sense to cease their game the very second Thranduil entered the room. His sister Lilithen sat in preoccupied silence, her large and poignant grey eyes fixed upon some point in the interminable distance. A wistful expression had settled itself like a fine layer of snow across her pale and pointed features; though whatever secret thoughts or emotions were passing behind the frostiness of her visage, Tirion could not fathom. His younger brother Legolas was, if anything, an even greater enigma. The black-haired youth slumped lopsidedly in his chair, as far from the table as he could contrive, tapping his long fingers idly upon the wooden armrest. Of all the children, Legolas was the most similar in appearance to his mother's kin: slender, dark, and striking, with high-ridged cheekbones and brown eyes subtly upswept at the outer corners. Tirion, by contrast, was the very image of his father. He was classically handsome, with fine yet masculine features, wide-set grey eyes, and hair of pale and dazzling gold. He had come of age three years ago, and had the slightly rangy, awkward demeanour of a young man maturing against his will.

Thranduil entered the room in a swish and rustle of ornate robes, striding straight-backed and dignified to the head of the table, and sinking into his seat. At his signal, the gathered servants began to busy themselves in setting food upon the table. Tirion gazed over at his father. Thranduil's face was severe and stately; and his presence was commanding as ever.

"Legolas, do sit up straight," Thranduil demanded sharply, casting his second son a hawkish glance. "You look like a slovenly oaf."

Legolas drew himself upright, his eyes fixed disinterestedly on the plate before him. Silence descended. After ten minutes of picking at his food, and pushing morsels maddeningly around his plate with the tines of his fork, Legolas requested to leave the table. The eyes of those gathered all turned to stare at him. Thranduil raised his eyes sternly.

"One member of the party may not leave the table, until all those gathered have finished dining," Thranduil growled in a tone that brooked no dissention.

"That's ridiculous," Legolas muttered. "I've finished my meal. What possible purpose is served by my sitting here and watching others as they dine?"

"I am merely attempting to educate you in the customs of polite society," Thranduil countered, his voice low and perilous. "You are a descendant of the royal line of Greenwood the Great, and must be taught to behave as such. Would you besmirch your noble heritage by behaving like an ill-mannered wretch?"

"I scarcely think that leaving the dinner table five minutes early constitutes a tarnishing of the family name." Legolas retorted.

Tirion gazed at his brother open-mouthed, wandering at his reckless defiance. It was, in all truth, a decidedly trivial matter (he himself had often thought his father's tireless affirmation of the importance of social etiquette rather tiresome) and yet it was a rule on which Thranduil had always vehemently insisted. There was no question of his relenting, and Legolas' objections were seemingly nothing more than a rather foolhardy attempt to provoke his father, and cause an uncomfortable scene for the family. It was not the first time Legolas had questioned Thranduil's authority of late, and while Tirion sympathised with his brother's frustrations to some degree, he could not help but wonder precisely what Legolas hoped to achieve by his aimless rebellion.

"You will not utter another word, my son," Thranduil snarled, his face contorted with rage. "Or by the Valar, you shall regret it."

Legolas looked his father in the eye, undaunted. "Mother always used to say that the pursuit of empty tradition was the gravest expression of folly – the annihilation of reason, and the death of spontaneity."

Tirion dropped his knife on the table with a clatter, and little Mîrlondë let out an audible gasp. Thranduil had not once mentioned his wife since her death, and had allowed no one – not even his father, King Oropher – to speak her name, or make reference to her in his presence. Lilithen looked close to tears, and glared at Legolas venomously. The young Prince finally looked uncomfortable, and glanced apprehensively at his father. Thranduil's face was blank; drained of all colour and expression. A taut and ghastly silence extended across the room.

'Go to your chamber, Legolas,' Thranduil murmured in a quiet, stricken tone. 'You shall remain there for one week. I have no wish to look upon you.'

Legolas rose to his feet, and left the room without a word, slamming the door as he departed.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N - thank you to my reviewers for your tips and contributions! (and Lilypop, I can really relate!)  
Remember, even cutting criticisms are more than welcome, as long as its constructive. This update is pretty short, but there's more in the pipeline, I promise!

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Part Two – the Midnight World

_The years following on immediately from the death of my mother were perhaps the worst of my life. I had never, and would never again, feel quite so lost, or so tangled up in the cruel clutches of so many fears and emotions I couldn't understand. Even now, equipped with the knowledge and experience the long years have bestowed upon me, I am ambivalent of that time – of my father's conduct towards me, and mine towards him. I think we were both at fault to some degree; it has taken us a great deal of time to forgive each other, and perhaps longer to forgive ourselves. I have never seen the world as he does, though knowing and understanding my father as I now do, I truly believe that he could never have been other than he was. Neither could I, of course, and therein lay the problem._

_Was I wrong to rebel against my father's authority? It is a question that has long troubled me, and I have never been able to concoct a wholly satisfactory answer. I no longer see the matter in terms of fault or righteousness. I see only two very sad individuals, both blind captives of their own private grief, locking horns over the smallest and most trivial issues, lashing out at one another as though our mutual rage was the only point of connection between us. And perhaps that is the crux of it. Love and hate are opposite sides of the same coin, and to engage in battle is to at least acknowledge the existence of one another, to unite, if only in mutual disdain and enmity. I believe that at that time, my outbursts of fury and frustration were the most eloquent means of communication I was capable of._

_If I could have my time again, I would handle the matter differently; this much I readily admit, although such speculations are of little worth. I see now that the behaviour of my father and I served only to exacerbate the wounds we had already sustained, and those of our kin. I cannot speak for my father in this matter, but I see now that I was terrified of what the silence might bring, terrified of what lay at its heart. Of all the complex emotions churning unbearably within me, fear was most certainly at the forefront, though I would have been the last to admit it at the time. I was afraid that the silence would steal my father away, just as it had stolen my mother – afraid that the silence might swallow us whole._

_---_

Blue-grey twilight blossomed gently in the depths of the western horizon, blearing the furthest reaches of the evening sky with its dusky touch. A faint network of stars began to emerge, soft as unearthly jewels dimly glimpsed through a depth of shimmering, wintry water. Legolas gazed out into a night-washed world with cold and vacant eyes, wondering uselessly why he was so unable to weep.

Suddenly, there came a subtle tapping at the door of his chamber.

"Legolas?" came the soft and hesitant whisper.

"Be gone, Tirion," he replied in a faltering tone. "I am in no mood for listening to what anyone might have to say."

"As to that, my brother, you are something of a captive audience."

Legolas smiled faintly in spite of himself, and crept over to the locked door.

"What is it?" He whispered through the keyhole, grinning conspiratorially. "Have you come to release me from my incarceration?"

"Certainly not!" Tirion spluttered. "_You_ might pay no heed to the wrath of our father, but by Eru, I fear it more greatly than the fires of Orodruin."

"You always were a coward," Legolas huffed.

"Perhaps," Tirion replied, his tone uncharacteristically wistful. "Perhaps you are right. I have never been equal to the expectations of those around me, never worthy of my heritage. I am resigned to the cowardice in my nature, brother, though I doubt I shall ever be at peace with it."

"I spoke in jest," Legolas muttered in a half-apologetic tone, disturbed by his brother's sudden and unexpected distress.

"No, you did not," Tirion answered quietly. "But I hold no grudge against you for it. Come, let us speak of other matters. I came here tonight to see that you are well."

"Indeed," Legolas snorted, grateful that his brother had chosen to change the subject. "I am as well as can be expected, considering that I have been locked in a cell by a madman I call father, and have very little chance of glimpsing daylight again for as long as I live!"

"Oh poor Legolas," Tirion chuckled softly. "So hard-done-by. You speak as though your bedchamber was some kind of stinking dungeon! Things are not so bleak, little brother. You are here for seven days only, and you cannot deny that you brought it on yourself."

"I spoke only the truth," Legolas retorted, stung. The heat began to rise in his cheeks, and his jaw set into a firm scowl. "It is an utterly inane tradition."

"I do not deny it, yet you must have known he would punish you."

"Aye, but that does not make it _right_ that he should do so. Since mother's death he has become a slave to senseless convention; observing every inconsequential custom and minute detail of that which he _deems_ proper conduct. You have said as much yourself, though never in his presence I notice."

"Indeed not. And has it occurred to you that this is the chief reason why you are currently confined to your chamber and I am not?" There was a trace of amusement in Tirion's tone, which Legolas found deeply infuriating.

"You cannot make a jest from this, Tirion! Father has lost his wits! Who is he attempting to impress with his ceaseless devotion to ritual and convention? It simply makes no sense."

"Rituals may have purposes beyond those of social etiquette," Tirion answered quietly. "Legolas, can you not see that he is simply resorting to the only thing he knows? The only place he feels safe? I understand your hurt and frustration, my brother, truly I do, but he is struggling with his grief by the only method he has ever learned."

"As are we all," Legolas countered bitterly. "Though he has forgotten that. He would pretend our mother never existed."

"If you wish to speak of mother, you may come to me, or Lilithen," Tirion replied, and though his words were calm and even, Legolas could tell that his brother was close to tears. "Our mother was a kind, wonderful woman, and I would never deny you the right to honour and commemorate her life by speaking of it. Father is not yet ready for this – the sorrow of her passing is still raw within him, and we must respect that. In any case, you were not attempting to venerate our mother's memory by your words, but to incite and distress our father. Do you believe that is what mother would wish? You ought not to have used her words as weapons against him, Legolas. It was cruel."

"Are you suggesting that I am to blame for this? Would you make our father a wounded martyr, and me the cause of all this ruin?" Legolas cried incredulously.

"Twist not my words, Legolas," Tirion said wearily. "That is not what I meant at all, as well you know. None of us are to blame for what has come to pass."

"Is this all that you have come to say?" Legolas demanded sharply. "For I can do without such consolation as this!"

"Hush, or you will wake the whole house," Tirion answered, sighing sadly. "Forgive me, if I have caused you hurt. Such was never my intention. Yet would you have me be anything but honest?"

"I would have you gone," Legolas retorted bluntly.

A stab of regret shot through him as he knelt motionlessly by the door, listening to his brother's retreating steps. He had not meant it. He would rather have had his brother there beside him, even if Tirion had done nothing other than list his faults incessantly until the rise of dawn.


	4. Chapter 4

Legolas was exhausted, yet his mind was strangely unable to slow its pace, spurred on by the frenetic velocity of his thoughts. He kept lurching up from his bed, half-involuntarily, and pacing his room in an endless circle of frustration. His heart pulsed with a hot and dismal wrath when he considered the fact that he was incarcerated between these four walls for the next seven days and nights. Confining Legolas to his chamber was possibly the worst punishment Thranduil could have dealt. It essentially meant a week of torture. Legolas was frantic, agitated and impatient at the best of times; and here he was, perpetually awake, limply furious, driven to distraction by boredom and enforced solitude. It was almost a day before he was able to coax his mind to silence, after which he felt the trance-like waves of restfulness rise up to claim him at last, and he lay still for many hours. 

On the third night of his incarceration, the young Prince sat slumped by his window, his eyes roving restlessly out into the darkness. Tirion had not come back to visit him, and Legolas was more than a little wounded by this. He guessed it was his father's doing. Thranduil had, in all likelihood, explicitly forbidden the whole household to communicate with his son for the duration of his imprisonment. It stood to reason, for even the servants had uttered no word to him when they came to furnish him with food and supplies, and simply inclined their heads blankly when he attempted to question them or make conversation, which was most unusual. And yet, perhaps his father was not the only cause for his immutable isolation. He wondered whether he had truly upset or offended his brother by his words those few nights ago, and wished now that he could make amends. Nevertheless, it was most certainly not in Tirion's nature to bear a grudge, and if Thranduil _had_ decreed that none were to approach his second son, Tirion probably wouldn't have had the nerve to defy him. It was the absence of his sister Lilithen that disturbed Legolas most deeply. Regardless of Thranduil's orders, Legolas felt sure that if Lilithen had wished to visit him, she would have contrived a way. He recalled the way his sister had glared at him across the table when he had mentioned their mother, and bowed his head, wondering bitterly if his kin would ever speak to him again.

The tall, stately halls of King Oropher thrust through the smooth, green surface of Amon Lanc, the Bald Hill. Though its slim towers and battlements extended far into the lofty heavens, the internal halls and passages extended deep underground, terminating in a vast, subterranean network of cavernous storage-halls and dungeons. Legolas' chamber was situated at the tip of a stout turret towards the Eastern wing of the Palace.

Suddenly, there came a sharp thud from below, accompanied by a muffled cry. Legolas thrust his head far enough through his window to peer down to the ground almost directly beneath him. A grey-cloaked figure knelt awkwardly amid the shadows, gasping an array of Elvish expletives, the like of which would have earned Legolas a swift clout around the head from his father. The voice was young, and male.

"Who goes there?" Legolas demanded in a low voice.

The stranger looked up sharply. He rose to his feet, leaning against the great bole of a tree. He was a tall and wiry youth, probably a little older than Legolas. A few feral strands of thick, flaxen hair poked out from under his hood. He looked quite alarmed at the sight of Legolas, and sketched the most graceless and inexpert bow the young Prince had ever seen.

"I…I am named Saeglin, sir. Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb your rest. I shall take my leave, now, my prince, if you wish it."

Legolas spluttered with amusement. He had never quite grown accustomed to the fact that the citizens of Greenwood all knew and recognised him by face and name; and he had certainly never been comfortable with it. Since early childhood it had driven a wedge between him and his contemporaries, a strange and stilted distance he had been wholly unable to bridge or assuage with any amount of effort. The other children had meant no harm, but the awkward reverence in their voices when they addressed him – indicative of a blind respect and admiration for nobility, no doubt instilled into them by their parents – had left him feeling embarrassed and isolated. As such, the few friends he had were almost exclusively from among his kin.

Legolas watched the stranger begin to slip away, and a tendril of that old familiar emptiness snaked horribly around his stomach.

"No, wait!" He called suddenly, watching the youth turn in his tracks, looking more than a little anxious. "What were you doing beneath my window?"

"I…I am sorry, sir. I was simply passing by, and I tripped," Saeglin answered, the trace of a sheepish grin touching his crooked mouth.

The youth had told no falsehood; of that much Legolas was certain. Yet he was plainly concealing something. It was three hours past midnight, by Legolas' reckoning, and a very curious time for a youth to be out of doors. He suspected that Saeglin was up to some manner of skulduggery, and he decided, purely on a whim, that if it was of any interest at all he wanted some part in it.

"Where are you bound?" Legolas asked in a soft yet authoritative tone, raising an eyebrow. "Tell me the truth, or I shall raise the alarm."

It was the emptiest of threats, but Saeglin appeared to give it credence. His face was the picture of dismay.

"Sir, my friends and I…we gather some few nights of the month, to spend some unguarded time together."

"Why?" Legolas asked at once.

"My friend Balthar, he brews ale in secret…we…" Saeglin trailed off miserably, and bowed his head. "Please do not report us, my Prince. We've done naught wrong, truly, and my father would flay me to the bone if he learned of it."

"I shall keep your secret to myself on one condition," Legolas wheedled, trying not to imagine how his own father would react if he knew of this. "That you take me with you."

Saeglin looked up at him with a jolt, clearly shocked, but he made no objection. Without another word, Legolas hopped nimbly out of his window and clambered surely as a cat along the branches of the tree directly outside his room, lowering himself gently to the ground. It was the first time he had climbed amid the branches of any tree since the day he had slipped and damaged his ankle, after first learning of his mother's death. He had been positively dreading it for some reason, but he was relieved to find that the exercise brought him no pain. He stood there for a moment, looking into Saeglin's face. The youth gaped at Legolas for a moment in a somewhat comical fashion, before murmuring:

"This way, Sir."

He turned and beckoned for the Prince to follow him, and Legolas obliged, marvelling at this new and unexpected turn of events. They moved in silence for a time, until they had gained a safe distance from the stone Halls.

"We have met before, have we not?" Legolas commented quietly at last, moved by a remote stirring of memory he could not place.

"Aye, sir, once. I am flattered that you recall it," Saeglin answered politely. "My father works in the Great Library in your Grandsire's Halls. I visited him as he worked one day – five winters ago, it must have been – and you chanced to be there with your tutor, learning your lessons."

Legolas barely remembered, but he nodded in acknowledgment.

"I must warn you, Saeglin, to cease flattering and fawning over me as though I were some variety of high emperor. There is no need. I am no different from you."

The two youths exchanged a glance, and then Saeglin's mouth lapsed into a lopsided grin.

"That is well," he chirped. "I have never truly mastered the art of flattering my superiors."

"Where are we headed?" Legolas asked, after a lengthy pause.

"There is a clearing in the forest, not far ahead," Saeglin replied, turning and smiling amiably. "You shall see it, soon enough!"

After several minutes of traversing the dense and murmuring shades of the forest, Legolas and Saeglin stepped out, quite without warning, into a large, open glade. The heavens blossomed overhead, a wild and haunting expanse of midnight blue all tangled with stars. The clearing was fairly well trodden, and the earth was cloaked only with a thin, scrubby kind of grass, though Legolas noted that patches of dense briar congested the more obscure corners and niches of the wide space. Subtle shafts of starlight laced the world in a dim rinse of silver, and elucidated the faint outline of a stout, misshapen figure at the far end of the glade. Legolas started at the sight, and then, a moment later, grinned at his own foolishness. It was no misborn creature of the night that stood before them, but the straw-stuffed effigy of an Orc.

"Ah, yes. I suppose I ought to have warned you about Grunt," Saeglin chuckled. "Though your face was a picture when you first beheld him. I thought you were about to turn tail and flee."

"_Your_ face shall be a picture when I grind it into the earth." Legolas replied archly.

The two Elves looked at one another for a moment, then broke into laughter. Legolas glanced over at the aptly named Grunt. Its head was essentially a shapeless bag, upon which someone had crudely daubed the grotesque features of an Orc, with tiny shrewish eyes and a wide snarling mouth. The loose sacking of its torso was latticed with tiny puncture-marks.

"He is the victim of children's target-practice," Legolas speculated. "Am I right?"

"Aye, that he is," Saeglin answered, a little wistfully. "I never could hit him. Even now I struggle to graze his knee with an arrow at twenty feet, if you can believe it. I am the worst marksman this side of the Misty Mountains."

"I could pass an arrow straight between his eyes, drunk, with my eyes bound," Legolas countered airily.

"Have you the nerve to prove it?" Saeglin asked with a roguish grin.

"Have you a bow and arrow?"

"I have not even the means to get drunk. Where can Balthar have got to?"

Legolas and Saeglin sat for some time at the edge of the clearing, not five yards from the malformed shadow of Grunt. They chatted quietly, and Legolas was curiously delighted at the swiftness with which the other Elf had discarded his formal manners and accepted him into this new and infinitely more agreeable world. Their conversation was easy, fluid, and light; so far removed from the dark miasma of grief and rage in which Legolas had been wallowing these past months that he felt almost disorientated, dizzy with the experience of something – anything – other than unmitigated misery.

When Balthar finally arrived, he reacted to Legolas' presence much the same way as Saeglin had – he was cautious and a little formal at first, but soon rejected ceremony in favour of amiability, particularly once he'd taken a few swigs of the truly appalling ale he had provided. He was more reserved in his manner than the ridiculously affable Saeglin (who spent much of the night giggling stupidly – apparently, he could no more take his drink than he could pierce an Orc's eye with an arrow in the dark) and had a sharp, feline wit that even his disgraceful home brew could not altogether dull. Legolas himself began to feel hazy and befuddled with the ale rather sooner than he had expected – it was a dark, bitter substance, with an unsettling hint of viscosity.

"Dare I ask, Balthar," he asked, holding the bottle up in the starlight. "However did you create this evil concoction?"

"Ask all you wish," Balthar replied with a sly grin. "A master does not betray his secrets."

"A master, indeed!" Saeglin slurred. "He has been poisoning us night after night, and has yet to reveal the ingredients of his foul brew."

"You have a stronger stomach than Palandil, at least, if not stronger legs," Balthar commented, grinning. "Where _is_ our retching friend? He ought to be heaving up his entrails in the nearest thicket by now."

"I am sure I don't know. His mother has probably confined him to his chamber again for some infraction or other."

The two of them began to laugh, and Legolas grinned awkwardly. He had not revealed that he himself was suffering a similar punishment (or at least, was supposed to be). It was all slightly humiliating, and he preferred not to mention it. There were many aspects of his life, in fact, that he did not discuss with these new associates, and that suited him perfectly. Saeglin and Balthar seemed to occupy a bright and blissful reality entirely apart from his own, and while he was a visitor in their midst, he felt that he could share in the gentle sunshine of their world, and forget the shadows he had left behind. He felt warm and hazy, with more than the ale, as he stumbled his way home several hours later. He scaled the tree outside his window with some difficulty, but managed to avoid detection as he gained entry to his chamber and sunk down upon his bed, a foggy stupor engulfing his senses in a vast and slumberous wave


	5. Chapter 5

Part 3 - formed of a Finer Clay

_The friends I made in that time – Saeglin in particular – provided a very welcome reprieve from the bleak and painful aspects of my life, which up until that point had held sovereignty over my every waking move. I never once mentioned the matter of my mother's death, (though they must have been aware of it – Lady Líriel had, after all, been wife to the Crown Prince of their realm) or the disputes fracturing my family home. In their presence, I was another being altogether: a carefree and confident youth, easy mannered and unruffled, with a pronounced sense of mischief. I was more reminiscent of the child I had been, and, one might suggest, of the adult I would later become. I am eternally thankful for the part they played in my recuperation, and yet, I suppressed so much of myself in their presence that I became something of a walking distortion. My sadness, fear and fury did not evaporate into the darkness of my past; I merely forced my shadows down, stifled them, and masked my rampant anxieties with a façade of indifference. As one might expect, this tendency began to work against me. _

_My kin endured the full brunt of my fury; I think because they reminded me all too keenly of a time of innocence, and, more to the point, a time of powerlessness. I wished to forget that I had ever been a child. I strove to break free of the strictures imposed upon me by my father, raging against his authority in a blind endeavour to assert an authority of my own. I longed for mastery over my own destiny, which the world had wrested from me so completely. I was a dark, brooding presence at the dinner table, and a furious shadow haunting the halls and chambers of my home – a surly and snarling youth with a strange violence in his blood, and a hot spear-point of wrath squirming in his gut at the slightest provocation. _

_This twofold existence had a curious impact upon me. Two diverse selves dwelt in my body, neither one of them entirely representative of my true nature. These dual aspects of my character became increasingly distinct, delineated; slipping further and further apart while my true self sank deeper into the emptiness between. It was a long time before I would begin to reconcile all the disparate pieces of myself that I had strewn so carelessly to the wind, or realise that I was capable of so much more. _

_---_

High summer extended its balmy touch across the realm of Greenwood. The forest was alive and dazzling, heavy with the heaped gems of summer fronds and blossoms, misted with the lush, verdant, jade-green glint of burgeoning life. The fortress of King Oropher stood huge and stark against a world that seemed to wilt and slump beneath the burden of so much light and warmth and colour.

The hot breath of summer failed to infuse the echoing vaults of the Great Library. Only dust and silence dwelt in the upper reaches of this lofty space, gathering like layers of frost upon the endless, untouched battalions of leather-bound tomes. Legolas kicked his heel moodily against the leg of his chair, glowering at the profusion of yellowing parchment on the desk before him. The previous night, he had been foolish enough to return home several hours later than the explicit decree of his father. As punishment he had been sentenced to spend the entire day cataloguing ancient scrolls in the muted solitude of the Great Library. Thranduil was a shrewd and resourceful individual, and over the past months had grown something of a talent for devising ingenious and excruciating punishments for the benefit of his unruly son.

After four solid hours of sifting through reams of arcane Sindarin verse, Legolas was in a truly foul mood. The librarians were all under strict instructions to keep him within the confines of the Library until six hours past noon, which meant five more hours of silent drudgery. The tedium had become unbearable. Legolas surged to his feet, and paced the room agitatedly. He had been placed under the express supervision of the assistant library administrator, Daglin, the father of his friend, Saeglin. Daglin was a strange, scattered individual – scholarly, and painstakingly eloquent, but visibly disorganised and perpetually flustered. Several hours ago he had removed Legolas to an obscure chamber and set him this monstrous task, and then had promptly floated off somewhere and apparently forgotten all about him. The task in question was not beyond Legolas' skills or understanding. He had, of course, received a quality education from some of Greenwood's finest scribes and tutors, but he had never been studious by nature. He was too restless and impatient to take pleasure in any activity which entailed sitting down for long periods of time, and he would sooner serenade an Orc than complete this laborious mission. Lately, he had devoted much of his time and effort to his combat training, for several reasons. It was a legitimate and satisfying outlet for his energy and aggression: perhaps the only one that resulted in praise rather than punishment. He also welcomed the opportunity to spend much of his time out of doors in the company of his friends, as far from the influence of his father as possible. He had grown competent with a sword, and was swiftly becoming a gifted marksman, even by the measure of the Elves.

As Legolas slumped down in his uncomfortable wooden seat and cradled his head in his hands, the sound of hushed voices reached his ears, drifting up from the main vestibule of the Library. He discerned a stifled giggle, and the echo of approaching footsteps on the stairway below. With a sigh, he turned slowly and beheld his sister Lilithen, grinning in the doorway. Her friend Ethrin accompanied her, peering curiously at Legolas from around the wooden lintel.

"Leave me alone," Legolas rumbled, turning his back on the two smirking girls.

He had the distinct impression they had come here simply to tease him, or fulfil some mischievous plot. It was a habit of Lilithen's to taunt him when he encountered this kind of misfortune, though admittedly, Legolas was wont to behave similarly when his sister was the subject of one of Thranduil's creative punishments. Lilithen and Legolas existed in a perpetual state of playful animosity, though their light-hearted bickering occasionally bordered on genuine hostility.

"Oh, come now, little brother," Lilithen giggled, strolling over and peering over his shoulder at the amassed strips of parchment festooned across his desk. "You can spare a moment for your dear sister, can you not?"

Ethrin sashayed across the floor to join her friend in gazing infuriatingly over Legolas' shoulder. The young Prince rolled his eyes. Lilithen was capable of being quite galling enough on her own, but with Ethrin in tow she was nothing short of formidable. The two of them exchanged a wicked glance, and then fixed their eyes upon Legolas, twin expressions of mischief plastered across their faces.

"Be gone," Legolas mumbled, feeling unaccountably nervous.

"We shall depart, little one," Lilithen replied, smirking, "and trouble you no longer. And yet first you must grant us a favour."

"What is it?" Legolas demanded waspishly, pretending to be engrossed in the scroll before him.

"My Prince, it is I who request a token of your good will," Ethrin cooed, leaning upon Legolas' desk and gazing intently into his eyes. "I ask that you would deign to grant me a kiss."

Legolas' eyes jolted into contact with hers. Ethrin was teasing him; that much was certain. A curious smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, and her eyes glistened with suppressed humour. Lilithen, on the other hand, made little effort to conceal her amusement. She stood a little apart from them, her hands clamped across her mouth and her body racked with great silent sobs of laughter. Legolas ignored her, and devoted his attention entirely to Ethrin. The maiden hovered perilously before him, like a coiled serpent making ready to pounce.

"Come now, Sir," she murmured in a silken voice, edging even closer to him. "Just one kiss – one single touch from the royal lips. You would do me such an honour."

Legolas' chest felt swollen with panic, embarrassment, and a truly inexplicable terror. He felt his cheeks colour. While the maiden was obviously toying with him, for some odd reason she did appear to genuinely expect him to kiss her. Even under less excruciating circumstances, Legolas would have had no particular desire to kiss Ethrin. He barely knew her, and had never admired her looks. He had always favoured those maidens who echoed something of the elegant Caliquendi kindred – tall, ethereal, and golden-haired. He was mesmerised by the air of dignity, the shimmering stateliness inherent in the blood of that noble kind, and had often regretted that he himself had not inherited these attributes from his father's kin. Ethrin was small and dark, like most of the indigenous Silvan population of Greenwood, though even by their standards she was no great beauty. Her features were small and narrow; her eyes deep-set and so dim a shade of brown as to appear almost black. There was little grace or refinement in her manner, and she was notoriously outspoken and unruly (which was possibly the reason Lilithen approved of her so greatly). Her appearance was not unpleasant by any means – some might have called her striking – but she had none of the poise or delicacy that Legolas found appealing in women. Moreover, there was something about her that he simply did not like; some indeterminate quality that he was unable to pinpoint, or explain, though he had always been dimly aware of it.

"Why brother, you look positively terrified," Lilithen taunted blithely, between fits of giggling. "Do not tell me you have never kissed a maiden before!"

"That simply will not do, my Prince," Ethrin purred, brushing his cheek with her finger.

Before Legolas had a chance to resist, Ethrin seized his shoulders and thrust him towards her. She kissed him vehemently, and he was powerless to oppose her. He felt nothing but dismay and anxiety at the touch of her lips against his. Her mouth was soft and yielding to the touch, her scent uniquely feminine; yet he was entirely unmoved by desire or lust, and felt merely an acute sense of discomfort and embarrassment. As Ethrin drew away, grinning, he was unable to look her in the eye. His heart thrummed with raw mortification, and he turned away from her in abhorrence. Lilithen squealed with laughter, and Ethrin dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"Be _gone_!" Legolas exclaimed violently, turning his flushed face from the two squawking girls. "I have done as you bade me, repellent as the task was."

"Oh, a cardinal insult," Ethrin chuckled, quite untroubled. "Until we meet again, my Prince."

She brushed his cheek and sauntered carelessly off. Lilithen followed her friend, crowing with delight. Legolas sat frozen, struck blind and dumb with horror and humiliation, as the two girls' retreating voices and footsteps gradually dissipated into the cold and ancient silence of the Great Library.


	6. Chapter 6

The Ballroom shimmered, dim and delicate, like a hovering world of starlit glass. A drifting constellation of tiny filigree lamps hung from the lofty ceiling, misting the air with a ghost-breath of silver. A host of dancing figures twirled silently in the ethereal glow, flitting in and out of clarity like the intangible visions of a mystic, those most exquisite of phantasms glimpsed by dream-light, thrumming gently at the dusky borders of consciousness. A tide of melody rose and fell, suspended weightless upon the shivering air – now rising like a gold, swollen wave of sound, now ebbing to a slow and tender pulse, the plucking of a single lyre-string, or the ghostly chime of a solitary bell. 

Legolas was deeply moved by the beauty of his surroundings, quite in spite of himself. He had grouched and grumbled for most of the evening at having to attend the Ball – the formal banquet beforehand had indeed been rather awful, but now that the company had dwindled down to a score of stately dancers, and perhaps another two-score mingling at the fringes, he was rather more content. He had managed to sneak a few glasses of sweet red wine past the notice of his father, and his vision had grown a little hazy at the borders. No one had spoken to him in over half an hour, and that suited him perfectly well. The last thing he needed was a stilted conversation with a sycophantic courtier or social climber he scarcely knew, or still worse, one of his father's stuffy and affected associates – one could barely call them friends. He had huddled himself into a fairly secluded corner of the Ballroom, and sat watching the dance in a thoughtful silence, supping nonchalantly at his ill-gotten glass of wine.

As one melody drew to a close, and the royal minstrels made ready to play another, several graceful figures disconnected themselves from the dance and wandered into the general crowd. One of them, Legolas realised with a faint bump of surprise, was steadily approaching him. He blinked, and grinned, suddenly recognising his friend Balthar. Legolas sniggered as he watched his friend duck towards a trestle table, emerging with two rather large wine-goblets as he made his way across the hall. Balthar looked radically different in his formal attire, with his malt-brown hair drawn neatly back from his face and held by a scarlet clasp at the nape of his neck. He was sixteen years Legolas' senior, and had come of age the previous winter. He was also extremely handsome – tall, well built, with startling green eyes like split-emerald ovals set amid the finely chiselled contours of his face – and was becoming increasingly popular with the women-folk. Legolas did not envy his friend this. He himself was rather young for that business; he had never felt more than a passing flicker of admiration for any maiden, and generally gave them little heed. Any attention bestowed upon him by girls tended to leave him flustered and confused – or appalled, if it in any way resembled his encounter with Ethrin the previous week.

"What business have you here, young sir?" Balthar exclaimed, smirking as he passed Legolas a full goblet, and seated himself. "I did not think mere Elflings were permitted to frequent these occasions! Or has your Royal status come into play?"

Legolas glowered at his friend in mock-contempt. Youths such as himself were not expressly prohibited from attending formal balls and banquets, though most parents customarily discouraged it. The ceremonies involved were often tedious and oblique to young minds; moreover, most Elves regarded childhood as a time of freedom and innocence, and chose not to introduce their offspring to a complex world of convention and formality until they had developed the maturity to appreciate it. Thranduil, of course, had no such qualms in that area.

"You might say. My father insists that I attend events such as this occasionally," Legolas mumbled bitterly. "It's all in aid of _instilling a sense of duty and decorum_, or some such drivel."

"You weren't at the Midsummer festivities."

"He isn't about to unleash me at a _significant_ occasion," Legolas protested, taking a gulp of wine. "I might sully the family name."

It was true, though Legolas had never quite articulated it, even to himself, until now. Gatherings such as this occurred every few weeks, and were of little communal or political consequence. Thranduil had never insisted on Legolas' presence at one of the more momentous festivals, where he might offend someone important, or bring shame upon his kin.

"It seems like common sense to me," Balthar replied offhandedly. "After all, look at you now. You are half-inebriated already. Imagine the commotion if one of King Oropher's particularly sombre speeches was interrupted by the spectacle of his grandson vomiting on the congregation. That would hardly do."

"I am not that intoxicated," Legolas retorted, with a grim smile. "I am still sober enough to perceive the futility of my father's scheme."

"You are being groomed for a position of authority," Balthar said thoughtfully. "Privilege comes with a price, it seems."

Legolas bowed his head for an instant. He cursed himself for allowing the conversation to stray towards these uncomfortable topics – perhaps the wine had loosened his tongue. He usually took great pains to avoid any mention of the various quarrels and concerns beleaguering his family home. He quaffed back a great gulp of wine, and gazed out across the hall.

It was then that he saw her – golden and evanescent, like the ghost of a forgotten world, or the shimmer of an ancient star, half-glimpsed through the slumberous mists of the ages. Perhaps it was merely a consequence of the wine he had consumed, clogging the lucidity of his senses, or an effect of the unearthly illumination of the hall, but the turn of her countenance was like nothing he had ever seen before. Her movements were slow and ghostly, magnetic in their subtle strangeness. She was moving towards him, and the appalling beauty of her face and shape was beyond comprehension or endurance. Every mote and fibre of his being was drawn towards her, compelled, constrained, coerced inexorably towards her approaching form. Yet he was rooted helplessly to the spot, his heart throbbing painfully like a hard, hot, heavy jewel within the stifling confines of his chest.

She stood before him at last, and he was unable to do anything but gaze mutely up into her face. She was pale, almost to the point of translucency, and her hair trickled in white-gold ringlets down to the delicate indentation of her waist. Her wide eyes were the finest and most haunting shade of glacial blue; though Legolas perceived suddenly that her pale gaze was fixed not upon him, but upon his companion. Balthar glanced up, only just noticing her, and rose to grant her a fluid bow. Legolas rose also, a little belatedly.

"Lady Avlareth, it is a pleasure to see you again," Balthar said graciously. "I do hope you are enjoying the festivities."

"Why yes," she answered softly, in a voice slightly lower than Legolas had imagined. "Though I shall take my leave soon enough. I am so swiftly wearied by the dance!"

"The night is young yet!" Balthar insisted, with a roguish grin. "A jot of wine should set you in good stead for a few hours, my lady. Shall I fetch you a flagon?"

"Gracious, no," Avlareth exclaimed, her eyes widening. "No drop of that foul brew has ever passed my lips, and I vow that it never shall! I choose not to cloud my senses with poison, master Balthar."

"Ah, in that respect you differ greatly from myself, and my companion here," he answered, turning to Legolas with a smirk. "There is no poison too deadly for our taste. Have you met Prince Legolas, son of Thranduil?"

She looked Legolas straight in the eye, for perhaps the first time since her arrival. It would have been appropriate for Legolas to bow and extend some kind of greeting to her at this point, but he felt oddly unable to do anything other than stare blankly into her eyes. The world had slipped out of kilter, and nothing seemed quite right any more; he felt dizzy, disorientated, and excruciatingly awkward. He did not trust himself to move, or speak – he could not break his silence, for fear of what lay beneath it. Avlareth's face was difficult to decipher, and her eyes were smooth and impassive as frozen waters as she surveyed him in silence. He wondered helplessly what thoughts were passing behind her exquisite features; what kind of impression had he made upon her, if any?

"I have not had that pleasure," she replied, after a brief pause.

She curtseyed elegantly. Legolas cleared his throat, sketching what felt to him like the most ungainly of bows.

"The pleasure is mine," he stammered uncomfortably, cursing himself inwardly.

Legolas had never in his life felt so horribly _conscious_ of his every word and movement, or so achingly inadequate. He was also acutely aware that this maiden was a fair few years older than he, and probably regarded him as the pointless, unsophisticated child he was. He had the sudden urge to curl up and weep.

For one crucial moment, Avlareth held Legolas' gaze. He could not be sure, but he fancied there was a subtle shift in the set of her features. Her visage lost a modicum of its composure, and for the briefest of moments she looked almost disconcerted. Yet the faint trace of anxiety soon dissolved into the soft opalescence of her face, and she inclined her head politely.

"I shall now take my leave," she stated courteously, schooling her features into the semblance of a sedate smile. "Balthar, it was a joy to speak with you once again. And Prince Legolas, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. I look forward to our next meeting. May you both enjoy the remainder of your evening. Farewell."

Avlareth cast Legolas one final glance, then turned hurriedly, and slipped off into the muted iridescence of the hall. Her departure seemed to leave a gaping chasm in the air before them, and Legolas' gaze remained rooted to the hard block of absence directly before his eyes, as though it still bore the faintest trace of her physical presence – the merest breath or scent of her. Legolas wondered distantly whether he had fallen in love with this girl. If so, then the romantic verse of the poets had wildly misconstrued the experience. This was no balmy delight, no soft caress of the soul. He felt somewhat as though he had been punched in the stomach.

Balthar slumped into his seat and took a gulp of wine; Legolas followed suit, for want of an alternative course of action. He felt unaccountably wretched.

"That was Saeglin's sister, you know," Balthar commented after a pause.

Legolas turned to his friend with a jolt, unable to conceal his momentary astonishment.

"I know, she is as beautiful as he is plain," Balthar chuckled. "And as tedious as he is amicable."

"I did not find her tedious," Legolas objected defensively.

"You were in her company for two minutes! That is no time to make a judgement," Balthar exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to Legolas' agitation. "I do not mean to be uncharitable. She is a pleasant girl, I suppose, but by thunder, she is duller than a dead Orc."

Legolas made no reply, and drained his goblet of wine in seconds. Intoxication was probably the last thing he needed, but for some reason, it seemed to be the most desirable option available to him. He bit his lip, and wondered uselessly whether the world would ever shift back into normality, now that the very earth seemed to have been torn from under his feet.


	7. Chapter 7

The night drew slowly on, and Balthar and Legolas continued to drink in silence. A peculiar kind of accord had exerted itself between them, an unspoken agreement to become thoroughly inebriated with as little ado as possible. Balthar was uncharacteristically subdued, and seemed consumed by his own thoughts. The gathered company had dwindled a little, and as he scanned the hall, Legolas detected no sign of his father, which he deemed fortunate. Thranduil's presence was perhaps the only thing that might have impelled the young Prince to curb his intake of wine. 

The hall had begun to tilt before his eyes, and he welcomed the sensation grimly. He had a strange appreciation for the curious shift to the senses caused by total inebriation. He felt disjointed, peculiarly removed and isolated from his surroundings. The world took on a delicate sheen – an inexplicable, almost mystical quality – and he was floating unhindered above it all, rising to a higher, and far stranger, plane of consciousness. The experience was, unfortunately, coupled with a strong sensation of nausea, but he was willing to endure it. Even more unfortunately, he was entirely unable to haul his thoughts from the stark, raw memory of Avlareth standing before him, impaling him with her austere and enigmatic gaze.

"Are you well acquainted with the lady Avlareth?" he spluttered out at last, turning quite suddenly to Balthar, who had begun to slump a little in his seat, either with fatigue or intoxication.

"Well acquainted?" he repeated sleepily. "Indeed not, though I've known her since early childhood. I cannot think why she insists on addressing me each time our paths cross, we never have anything to say to one another."

"Perhaps she has a particular liking for you," Legolas suggested, flinching inwardly at the possibility.

"I think not," Balthar snorted, though he did not elaborate, and Legolas did not encourage him to. If Balthar had identified the motivations behind Legolas' questioning, he had the discretion not to comment.

"You look fit to collapse, my friend," Balthar remarked after a pause. "I think you ought to retire for the evening."

"You are not looking quite first-rate either," Legolas slurred, mustering a fairly convincing grin. "Though I wager you speak the truth. I think I shall take my leave now. Take care not to launch yourself into a ditch on your journey home, as Saeglin has a habit of doing."

Balthar chuckled softly as Legolas stumbled off into the dramatically diminished crowd.

The world swam before Legolas' eyes as he edged off into a side corridor, leaning heavily against the coarse stone wall. This walkway was a little remote, and it led up past the sleeping quarters of his father and grandsire, before eventually terminating in the turret where his bedchamber was situated. Pallid lanterns lined the walls intermittently, barely sufficing to illuminate his path. As he neared the first flight of steps, he stumbled suddenly to the ground, the contents of his stomach splattering horribly on the stone floor.

When he had finished, he sat up and groaned, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. It was then that he noticed the figure on the stairs. He squinted, willing his eyes to focus, and when the dim shape finally resolved itself into a recognisable form, he froze, rigid with dismay. He gazed up into the stony eyes of King Oropher, his grandsire.

A frown furrowed the King's high and haughty brow, though the cold contours of his face were unruffled by the faintest trace or nuance of expression. Oropher was a lofty, imposing individual, aquiline in his glances and mannerisms, and he seldom failed to inspire a sense of awe – and occasionally terror – in his grandson. It was widely known that the King had little time or patience for children, at least where they _behaved_ as children, and he had played a decidedly minimal role in the upbringing of his descendents. To Legolas, King Oropher had always seemed a remote and magnificent figure – a distant sovereign, or austere ruler, rather than a member of his kin.

"What is the meaning of this?" the King demanded in a smooth, perilous tone.

"I…I think I have been struck by a malady of some kind, sire," Legolas lied hopefully.

"Indeed you have," Oropher retorted blankly.

"I feel much better now," Legolas remarked, hauling himself to his feet with embarrassing difficulty. "Perhaps I ought to rest. I shall return to my bedchamber now, Sire. I bid you good night."

He started up the stairs, but Oropher extended an arm to bar his grandson's path.

"Follow me," the King commanded in a tone that brooked no dissention.

It did not even occur to Legolas to disobey. He stumbled several times in his attempt to keep up with Oropher's swift and uncompromising pace. The King led him up a series of staircases, and escorted him deftly into Thranduil's private study, not pausing to knock at the door.

Thranduil was hunched over his desk, with several scrolls unfolded before him. He glanced up sharply as Legolas and Oropher entered the room.

"Well, Thranduil," Oropher enunciated brusquely, shoving his grandson into a chair before the desk. "I gave you more credence than _this_."

Legolas slumped in his seat with his head bowed, vaguely aware that the formidable eyes of both Thranduil and Oropher were upon him.

"What has befallen him?" Thranduil queried, rising from his seat in concern.

"Nothing, aside from parental neglect and a copious amount of wine," Oropher observed darkly.

"Legolas," Thranduil demanded pointedly. "Have you been drinking?"

"Honestly, Thranduil," Oropher scoffed. "The boy reeks like a brewery and you ask if he has been drinking! Have you taught him no better than this? Have you not even _attempted_ to instil a sense of decorum in your offspring?"

"I have done little else, of late," Thranduil answered quietly, his eyes downcast.

"This child looks fit to be rolling in the mud with the swine!" Oropher snarled. "Do you not comprehend that we, the nobility of this realm, have standards to uphold? Have you not the wit or decency to educate your young in the ways of polite society? I am ashamed to name this drunken ruffian a descendent of my blood!"

"I understand, sire," Thranduil replied softly. "Rest assured, this will not happen again."

"See that it does not!" the King demanded, turning his severe gaze to Legolas for the first time. "And have you ought to say, young prince?"

Legolas bowed his head, unable to meet the gaze of the furious king. "I apologise, Sire," he said quietly, more out of fear than genuine regret.

"As well you might," Oropher snapped. "You have brought unthinkable shame upon your kin."

"He will receive a suitable chastisement, father," Thranduil interjected. "I shall see to it."

"I would insist that he march down those stairs and personally scour the hallway that he steeped in vomit," Oropher barked. "Though I doubt his legs would carry him so far. He is fit to collapse. I leave him in your hands, Thranduil, unwise though that may be."

With that, King Oropher turned and marched from the room, leaving a cold and unyielding silence in his wake. Legolas glanced tentatively up at his father. Thranduil's face was cold and wintry.

"You ought to be ashamed, Legolas," he stated after a lengthy pause. "Why is it that you are so determined to make a show of me?"

Legolas glared down moodily at his hands. In truth, his rebellious outbursts occasionally _were_ direct attempts to discomfit or aggravate his father, but that had not been the case this time. He simply had not expected to get caught. "I merely acted in accordance with my own wishes," Legolas spat angrily. "I cannot think why you imagine that my actions have anything to do with you, or that you have any bearing over my decisions whatsoever."

"In the eyes of our public, your every act and word is a reflection upon me, and upon the King," Thranduil answered wearily. "We are not afforded the right to do precisely as we please. It is simply a lesson you must learn. Believe me, Legolas, I have shown much more understanding and leniency towards you and your siblings than I have ever received from King Oropher. Be thankful for that, if nothing else. If in my youth I had behaved as you do, my father would have had me flayed to the bone!"

Legolas didn't quite know what to say at this. He envisaged for a moment what kind of childhood his father might have been subjected to, with Oropher governing his every move.

"I vowed never to regard my offspring with the same contempt he reserved for me," Thranduil continued, wringing his hands together. "Even to this day, I do everything in my power to please him, and still he is unsatisfied! He holds me single-handedly responsible even for _your_ transgressions."

Legolas cleared his throat. A cold tendril of something akin to remorse squirmed in his stomach. Under natural circumstances, the knowledge that he was provoking his father – in however small a way – was accompanied by a rush of grim satisfaction. Rebellion itself seemed to hold a fiercely magnetic appeal. Confronting and challenging authority stirred a kind of dark euphoria in him, a frantic and unrestrained pulse of exhilaration. He even took intense pleasure in the ensuing arguments – the dizzy release of aggression, the heightened and unbridled emotion, the peculiar thrill of being locked in a raw and savage conflict. It was the aftermath he loathed: the ramifications, the self-loathing, the sense of total deflation and emotional blankness. This time, however, the dreary aftermath seemed to have overtaken him already. He felt somehow drained, fractured, and empty of all feeling save the faintest trickle of guilt. He greatly enjoyed provoking his father to wrath, but when Thranduil betrayed signs of genuine distress, Legolas could not help but feel slightly ashamed.

"You shall be confined to your chamber for three weeks," Thranduil said at last, his face white and taut. "After which, you shall report to me, and I shall administer further punishment if I deem it necessary."

"Three _weeks_?" Legolas cried, stung out of his reverie.

"You must be seen to be punished, Legolas," Thranduil answered haggardly.

"Then you are doing this for Oropher's benefit!" Legolas exclaimed bitterly, his guilt quite forgotten in the face of such a severe punishment. "Have you no will or mind of your own, father? You cannot cater to his every whim!"

"We _all_ comply with the wishes of Kings," Thranduil argued, rubbing his temple wearily. "Even Princes must learn this lesson. Contend with my decision no further Legolas, unless you would care for a full month's incarceration."

Legolas rose to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in rage, and stormed furiously from his father's study.


	8. Chapter 8

Part Four – Echoes of a Stirring World

_The months passed, slowly, tortuously, each one like a long, grey Age of this world. And yet they did pass. I felt in those days that I was ensnared in an endless waking eternity. The world around me was motionless, a bitter, slate-grey panorama infused with the emptiness of eternal winter. I wandered through the halls of the Palace, and the halls of my mind – indeed, I could discern little difference between the two in those times – like a thing of the ghost-world, drifting slow and fluid as a dream. My moods were swift and incoherent, shifting with the breeze. And up until that time, I had shifted with them. From what I recall of my thoughts and deeds, I can only deduce that I was not altogether sane. I had had very little notion of how to regulate my behaviour, and no ability to distance myself from whatever mood was upon me at the time. I was utterly transparent, impulsive, and erratic. A slave to every flicker and flare of passing sensation._

_But I had been honest. Honest to my emotions. Once you have learned to build a mask with which to face the world, and tailor your conduct to perfection, you can never hope to fully regain that pure sincerity you once had. My naïve impetuousness was not made to last forever. The world sees to it that we all eventually learn to conceal ourselves behind a façade of calm decorum, for the sake of self-preservation. We all lose our innocence sooner or later. Yet if we are not careful, a mask will grow into the skin, and take root so deeply that you mistake it for your native shape. What, then, becomes of our souls, lying in the darkness behind our eyes? What becomes of our shady dreams and impulses, hidden, and festering like an untended garden in the shadows of our minds? Even in these latter days – having lived a life so long and rich in experience, even by the reckoning of my own noble race – I have never learned to effectively and consistently hide my true thoughts and feelings from a perceptive eye. To those who know me well, I am quite simply an open book! In my youth this infuriated me, but today I am grateful that my nature errs towards impulse, honesty, and expressiveness rather than impassivity. Nowadays, I am glad that my every thought and emotion is immediately scrawled upon my face for the world to witness! _

_In the late summer of the year 3427, I became hopelessly infatuated with Avlareth. At the time I regarded the whole business as a grand Secret, though I very much doubt that no one noticed. That said, I saw very little of her during the next few years, though it was hardly for want of effort on my part. I began frequenting every minor festivity and ceremonial occasion, often in the company of Balthar or Palandil (Saeglin was not yet of age, and had no royal connection to legitimise his presence at such events) in the hope of glimpsing her. She very seldom attended such things, as I soon learned. However, her absence provided me with a golden opportunity to practice my manners. I would scarcely impress any girl, I told myself sternly, behaving like the surly and tempestuous youth I knew myself in my heart to be._

_I soon became adept and confident in social and formal situations; polite conversation, I learned, was nothing but a game. It is simply a case of knowing the rules. And so I watched the bland and pretty pleasantries sail back and forth like floating flowers, batting them on in my turn. Sincerity was lost in a maze of gleaming compliments, and passion was drowned by the slow and stately steps of the ceremonial dance. It was a hollow world, for the most part. From what I recall I remained ill mannered and rebellious in private, but I steadily groomed my public image into something more appropriate, something fairer, sleeker, demure and subtly duplicitous – a mask fit for a Prince._

_-----_

It was autumn, of the year 3429, and the world beyond the fair green eaves of the woodland realm was fast becoming a darker place. With the shifting season came grim tidings of a cold and malevolent presence that had spread its dusky wings wide across the lands of Middle-Earth; of roving Orcs, and bands of trolls, wargs and other dark creatures; of fires, plagues and battles that ate their ruinous way across the farms and homesteads of the Free Peoples. Murmurs had begun to stir of an old and nameless shadow, haunting the far reaches of the East, mustering its strength in the darkness of its ancient lair.

These dark tidings had even filtered into the consciousness of Prince Legolas, though his mind was chiefly devoted to other matters. He lay sprawled on the grass of a clear, bright meadow almost a mile from Oropher's halls, watching the late afternoon as it slid lazily into evening. It was warm, for autumn, even as the high blue heavens deepened to the mellow gold of a dreamy sunset. Beside Legolas lay his friend Palandil, who had taken a little too much wine at the formal luncheon they had attended some hours previous, and was now dozing on a soft tussock. The event had been rather tedious, and the two of them had departed early. In truth, Legolas had only attended because he had heard Saeglin mention offhandedly that Avlareth was at home visiting, and he had anticipated that she might possibly put in an appearance. His hopes had proved unfounded. In truth, he had seen her only thrice since their first meeting, and they had merely exchanged a few polite words on each occasion. Yet every encounter had only deepened and intensified his strange obsession, and revivified his desperate need to be close to her.

Of all the empty and frivolous knowledge Legolas had accumulated over the past two years, he had, to his rapture, gleaned the odd gem of information concerning Avlareth. He had learned, firstly, that she was indeed the daughter of Daglin the librarian, and the sister of Saeglin (though he was not quite sure how he felt about this at the time). He had also discovered that while Avlareth had no known romantic attachments, she had been intently pursued by a number of young males since her coming of age five summers ago. This much Legolas could have guessed for himself, yet he felt wretched about it all the same. It was thirteen years before he himself came of age, and would be permitted by law to woo her. Even then she might not welcome his advances, being a score of years his senior – that is scarcely a long time, of course, by the measure of the Firstborn, yet it sometimes appears so to young Elves.

Most unexpectedly of all, Legolas had discovered that Avlareth was the handmaiden of his mother's sister, Tamiel, whose house was situated nigh on ten miles north of Oropher's halls. There was an ongoing rift, of sorts, between his mother's kin and his father, which he had always been dimly aware of. He had never seen a great deal of his mother's side of the family, even less since her death, and he did not recall ever having met the lady Tamiel. Legolas thought often of visiting this mysterious aunt, if only to steal a glimpse of Avlareth, but he could never quite bring himself to do it.

He breathed deeply, and gazed up into the sad evening sky. The first and faintest stars had begun to surface, dimly glimmering like a scattered dust of silver. Palandil awoke presently, and dismissed himself with a few muddled words, stumbling off into the deepening shadows of the forest, making his way home. Legolas lingered in the meadow for a time, distantly aware that he had missed dinner and that his father would most probably be furious. He cared very little. At last he stirred, however, and ambled his way back towards Oropher's halls, casually attempting to smooth down his severely crumpled tunic (to no avail whatsoever). He had been lectured more than once for damaging or dirtying his elegant attire, though it had made little impact on him.

As soon as he passed under the ornate doors of the fortress, Legolas sensed a curious shift to the atmosphere. King Oropher, as a rule, chose to retire to his bedchamber at what Legolas considered to be an obscenely early hour of the evening. He also tended to rise rigorously early in the morning, before first light, and expected his house to rise with him. Thus, by the time darkness had bloomed across the night sky, the general sounds and movements of the Palace had begun to taper off into silence and stillness. Yet there was a different feel to the air tonight. Legolas could hear voices rising from the servants' quarters, and the flutter of footsteps arching along the halls of the upper floors. He hurried across the grand vestibule, and sped up a series of staircases. As he neared his grandsire's quarters, there came a sudden sharp hiss from behind him.

"Legolas! Where have you been?"

Legolas turned with a jolt, and found himself staring into the faces of his two sisters, Lilithen and Mîrlondë. It was clearly Lilithen who had spoken. She was Legolas' senior by several years, and occasionally liked to admonish her brother in an annoying motherly tone, when she was not teasing him, or running wild herself. She pushed her sleek dark hair behind her ears and fixed Legolas with an agitated glare, folding her arms. She had a pale, impish face, set with a pointed chin and swift grey eyes. Mîrlondë, who was a number of years younger than both of them, merely looked afraid, and more than a little preoccupied. She was a small, rounded, particularly pretty child, with the golden locks and fine features of her father's kin.

"Never mind that. What's going on?" Legolas demanded, thoroughly confused.

"Follow me," Lilithen breathed, allowing her devilish grin to surface. "And keep quiet."

She seized her brother's arm, and dragged him deftly towards their grandsire's private chambers. Legolas had severe doubts concerning the prudence of this plan. It would not be the first time Lilithen had dragged him into a troublesome situation, only to flee at the last moment herself and leave him to face the consequences. She had always been marvellously skilled at covering her own tracks, and concealing her indiscretions and infractions from the eyes of authority; Legolas' luck by comparison was positively wretched.

Lilithen and Legolas crept up the broad stairs to Oropher's study as silently as they could contrive, with Mîrlondë skittering along quietly behind them. Legolas discerned voices from within the chamber, and he crouched down, putting his ear to the crack in the doorframe.

"Aye, so we have heard," rumbled a voice that unmistakably belonged to Oropher. "For your edification, young sir, tidings of the fall of Minas Ithil have reached even as far as these _rustic_ lands."

"I would not suggest otherwise, Sire," came a second voice, smooth and softly spoken. "And your noble realm is far from rustic, as all learned folk can attest. I meant no offence."

"I know precisely what was meant," Oropher growled. "Furthermore, I am perfectly aware of what you would ask of me. It is strength of arms your master requires."

"Indeed, Sire, though great strength he has," the smooth voice continued. "The high King, Gil-Galad, seeks to forge an alliance between the forces of Men and the Elven kingdoms, to combat the evil which threatens to conquer us all."

"It has conquered little enough so far, save a paltry city of mortals," Oropher scoffed. "The towers of Men rise and crumble in the blinking of an eye, it seems. Would you have me risk the lives of my people for the sake of such a cause?"

"My good father has pledged the bows of Lórien to the Alliance," came a third voice, rich and melodious. "Can you justify promising any less? It is no petty skirmish of mortals that troubles the Eastern lands, as well you know. The shadow which broods in the land of Mordor may yet rise to engulf us all!"

"Moreover, Lord, it is we, the Eldar, who must bear the responsibility for the resurgence of this old darkness," interjected the soft, smooth voice that had spoken before. "We have long abandoned our vigil of those dark lands. Yet while we have slumbered in complacency, our ancient Enemy has not, it seems."

There was a lengthy pause.

"I shall agree to nothing, ere I have discussed the matter with my advisors," Oropher replied at last, his voice low and dark. "Tirion, would you run and inform Galdír that he is required here immediately. Make haste, boy!"

"At once, Sire. "

Lilithen and Legolas jolted at the sound of their brother's voice, and backed hurriedly away from the door, pressing themselves against the wall left of the lintel. Lilithen seized Mîrlondë to herself, as the child showed no sign of moving. Judging from her baffled expression, the girl had understood very little of the overheard conversation, but she had had wits enough to keep quiet all the same. Tirion's eyes widened as he flung open the door, glanced to one side, and found himself face to face with his three siblings. He drew the door closed without a reaction, and beckoned them on wordlessly behind him as he started off down the stairs. His pace was swift, and the others were almost jogging to keep up with him. When they were a safe distance from Oropher's study, Lilithen grasped her brother's arm to slow his progress.

"Who are those strangers, Tirion?" she demanded anxiously.

"One is an emissary from the High King Gil-Galad himself, the other is Prince Amroth of Lórien, who bears tidings from his father, King Amdír," Tirion answered shortly, breaking free from Lilithen's grip and resuming his uncompromising pace. "They are not members of the same envoy, but merely chanced to arrive at the same time. There is much afoot in the wide lands of Middle-Earth, as you have no doubt gleaned."

"What think you? Will Oropher relent?" Legolas asked sharply.

"If I know our grandsire at all, he is merely being awkward," Tirion replied grimly. "Of course he means to relent! He has been expecting a call to arms for some time now. If he had had a mind to refuse them he would have turned them away at the door."

"Tirion! Pause a minute!" Lilithen insisted breathlessly.

"I cannot tarry," he retorted with uncharacteristic brusqueness. "The King has little enough patience at the best of times, least of all now. I suggest you all withdraw to your chambers before you are seen."

Tirion sped off in the direction of Galdír's study, breaking into a run as he turned a corner and disappeared from view. The flurry of his footsteps dissolved gently into silence.

"What does it all mean?" Mîrlondë asked silently, her solemn grey eyes fixed on the distant spot where her brother had vanished.

"It means we are at war, little one," Lilithen answered bleakly, her face pale and tight. "We are at war."


	9. Chapter 9

The seasons passed in a dizzying fluster of preparation and anxiety. The summer of 3434, though as warm and fair as any summer before it, unfurled its bright and burnished wings upon a strangely darkened world. For four years the folk of the woodland realm had been mustering their arms and resources, and finally, word had arrived that the Allied Host of Gil-Galad and Elendil was on the move. Twelve days previous, the armed forces of Greenwood the Great had set forth from the woodland realm (as had the armies of Lórien) to join the great march, as tributaries that wend their way towards the path of a mighty river.

Prince Legolas had, rather imprudently, requested that he be allowed to join the march. He had trained fiercely over the years, devoting a great deal of his free time to honing his skills in warfare, and several commanders had commented that he displayed the prowess of a combatant many years his senior. Both Balthar and Palandil had enrolled in the armed forces – Balthar having been selected to join the Allied Host itself, whereas Palandil had been assigned to the home guard – and Legolas' father and grandsire had each vowed to ride forth as senior officers, assuming the burden of military command. Legolas had no particular desire to fight; yet he deemed himself more than equal to the task, and felt it would be quite excruciating to be left behind in the fraught silence of the fortress. However, King Oropher had denied his grandson's request without a second thought, answering, in a gallingly condescending tone, that the noble realm of Greenwood the Great was not yet so desperate that it allowed its _children_ to ride to war. In all honesty, Legolas really ought to have predicted such a reaction, given that it was almost ten years before he came of age. No one his age had ever been permitted to join the armed forces of Greenwood. Yet it seemed nauseatingly unfair that he was expected to assume all manner of public roles and responsibilities his contemporaries could scarcely guess at, but was denied the simple autonomous choice to fight for his country. He had tirelessly argued his case, to the growing irritation of his father and grandsire; yet Oropher had remained quite unmoved in his decision. The situation gave rise to a number of bitter disputes between Legolas and Thranduil, before the young Prince was grudgingly compelled to accept Oropher's judgement. And so the host of Greenwood the Great had departed, leaving Legolas furious and desolate in its wake. He and his father had parted on rather fragile terms; though as they said their stilted farewells, Legolas had forced himself to apologise for his behaviour with as much humility as he could muster, painfully aware that Thranduil might never return.

A fitful breeze ruffled the fringes of the boughs outside Legolas' chamber. The world beyond his window seemed to gleam and coruscate with the steaming breath of summer, a fine heat-haze misting the wooded slopes and dells of the ancient forest. Legolas sighed glumly, and allowed his gaze to taper off as far as it was able into the depths of the tree-bleared horizon. He imagined the Allied Host, now so many leagues away, its armoured ranks proceeding on through the wide and curious lands of mortals, like hordes of glinting stars passing in their constellations beneath a large and luminous sun. He could scarcely articulate how wretched he felt to be left behind. His age prevented him from even joining the home guard, which would have been far preferable to his current situation.

Tirion had also been denied the opportunity to join the armed forces, though he had accepted the decree with rather less fuss than his brother. He and Galdír, the royal advisor, along with a cluster of Oropher's other counsellors and delegates, had been elected to govern the affairs of the woodland realm in the absence of their King. Tirion was taking his new position extremely seriously, and had been well received by Oropher's advisors, young though he was. Even Legolas was given a host of minor duties to perform. These usually entailed running errands for his brother, relaying messages between advisors and chiefs and senior members of the household, or performing the particularly time-consuming and tedious administration tasks that no one else could quite bring themselves to do. It was all perfectly maddening, and Legolas found himself beginning to resent Tirion with an unprecedented virulence. His elder brother had no time for him any more, and spent his days ensconced in Oropher's dim and airless study, hunched over paperwork or discussing intricate financial and economic matters with Galdír, speaking to Legolas only to send him on a fresh errand.

Suddenly, there came a sharp knock at the chamber door. Legolas sat up with a jolt. The door burst open before he had a chance to reply, and a young boy spilled breathlessly into the room – his brother, Maeglos, the youngest of his four siblings. "Legolas! What are you doing! Tirion says you're late!"

"By Eru!" Legolas groaned, rising to his feet.

"Make haste!" Maeglos squealed, grasping at his brother's arm. "They're all assembled for the ceremony! I think Tirion's furious at you."

"That's a shame," Legolas retorted, pausing by the mirror to idly smooth down his tunic. The fact that it was Lilithen's coming of age ceremony this morning had genuinely slipped Legolas' mind, but the thought of Tirion's growing annoyance caused a smile to flicker at the corner of his mouth.

"Legolas!" Maeglos exclaimed, plainly taking the matter far more seriously than his brother was. Maeglos was a small, wispy child, with golden hair shorn unusually short – barely long enough to cover his ears – due to his curious habit of getting it caught in things. He was an edgy, restless sort of lad, somewhat given to histrionics, and brimming with an agitated kind of energy. His jitteriness occasionally tried Legolas' patience.

"Legolas!" the boy repeated, his eyes huge and anxious. "Please! I shall be in trouble too!"

"Oh, come on then," Legolas moaned.

Several minutes later, Legolas sauntered carelessly into the grand hall with Maeglos scuttling along behind him. He grinned jauntily across at Tirion, who stood at the head of the hall in his formal attire, a subtle frown creasing his brow. Legolas sank into an empty seat, ignoring the censorious glances of the gathered assembly. He scanned the room airily. Lilithen sat at the front, facing the silent congregation and looking uncharacteristically nervous. She was clad in a sumptuous gown of blue velvet, opulently embroidered with silver thread and shot with a glittering mist of tiny white gems. Tirion presided over the ceremony itself, in the absence of his father and grandsire. Also present were Oropher's advisors, several high-ranking members of the household, and a scattering of Lilithen's closest friends. A great deal more people would attend the formal dance this evening, but the official ceremonies were generally restricted to a select few.

The ceremony in question was long, and deadly dull to Legolas' mind. His thoughts began to wander, and he gazed dreamily up at the series of high oval windows that lined the walls, cutting the sky into a procession of dazzling blue teardrops. As the ritual finally drew to a ponderous close, and the gathered company began to disperse, Tirion made his way across the hall and faced Legolas grimly. They looked one another in the eye for a long moment.

"Would you care to explain your lateness?" Tirion demanded quietly.

"I forgot," Legolas answered shortly.

"This is a significant occasion," Tirion responded gravely. "Our sister's coming of age! And you might have at least dressed appropriately."

"Spare me your sermon, Tirion," Legolas snapped. "You are my brother, not my King."

"For now, perhaps," Tirion exclaimed bitterly. "Yet what of the future? We must acknowledge the possibility that neither our father nor our grandsire will ever return."

"You speak as though you relish the thought," Legolas rejoined quickly.

"Relish it! I would sooner see the heavens crumble!" Tirion barked with sudden vehemence. "I should make the poorest King the western world has ever seen, and believe me, if there were the slightest opportunity I would exchange places with you in a heartbeat! Though I doubt you would find the role to your liking either."

"Tirion, I have not the slightest aspiration to be King. I merely wish to regulate my own affairs."

"That is a luxury none of us can claim!" Tirion retorted, unusually agitated. "What freedom do you suppose I enjoy? It is not the place of a ruler to think of himself, but of those he governs."

"How did you grow to be so pompous?" Legolas sneered.

"How did you grow to be such an insufferable _brat_?"

In a blinding flash of rage, Legolas struck his brother hard across the side of the face. Tirion stumbled back a step, and then steadied himself on the back of a chair. The silver circlet he wore fell to the floor with a dull clunk. There was a long, raw silence. Legolas' eyes dropped to the broken object. He could feel his brother's livid gaze upon him, but somehow, he could not bring himself to meet it. They were alone in the hall now, thankfully. Oropher's advisors would scarcely have been impressed to witness the royal brothers squabbling like children. After a moment, Tirion turned on his heel and stormed furiously from the room. Legolas raised his eyes stiffly. He felt strangely numb and listless, more taken aback than angry or distressed. It was long minutes before he mustered the lucidity to leave the stricken silence of the hall behind him, and wander languidly back to the womb-like stillness of his chamber.


	10. Chapter 10

Afternoon lapsed sluggishly into evening. The night was hot and torrid, the air unmoving beneath a shroud of gathering black thunderheads. Even in the stone halls of the Palace, the atmosphere held a tense and stifling quality that was unmistakably the prelude to a thunderstorm, though it had little enough influence over the night's merrymaking. The formal dance marking Lilithen's coming of age ceremony was a joyous and lavish affair. The ballroom was festooned with frothing profusions of niveous white flowers, illuminated by the frosty radiance of a hundred silver candles resting in the narrow stems of their ornate, finely-tapered candelabra. Lilithen herself was quite the centre of attention, effervescent as she was, and seemed determined to dance with every available male in the kingdom at least twice before the night was out. If she was aware of the animosity brooding between her two brothers, she obviously didn't care. 

Legolas had not spoken to his brother since their rather heated quarrel that morning, and he noted that Tirion had studiously avoided his gaze since his arrival at the dance. The elder Prince's demeanour was as dignified and reserved as ever – indeed, a discerning eye might have noted that over the past few years he had begun to subtly imitate the expression and stance of his father (as had Thranduil in his turn, though few knew it). Tirion's confidence and poise had risen with his public profile, and the awkward shyness of his youth appeared to be a thing of the past. Nonetheless, his words and glances were somehow taut and restrained, less severe and commanding than his father's (and indeed his grandsire's), though retaining a definite echo of Thranduil's calm, shrewd hawkishness. Tonight, however, Legolas noted that his brother's visage was uncharacteristically wintry and sour. He had not danced once, and had seemingly spoken to as few of the guests as he possibly could without appearing rude. Perhaps he, like Legolas, could not dispel the memory of their recent bitter dispute.

Legolas himself was in a distinctly wistful mood, with no wish to dance or socialise, to eat or drink or talk to anyone at all. He keenly missed the merry presence of Balthar and Palandil, and within minutes found himself sitting alone in a secluded niche of the hall, as he had not done in years, absorbed in his own restless thoughts. Whatever light in which he viewed his words and deeds towards his brother that morning, he found himself at fault. Much as it pained him to admit it, even to himself, his brother had perhaps not been entirely unjustified in labelling him an insufferable brat (though Legolas maintained that the precise wording was a little harsh). Despite his assiduous, swelling sense of resentment against Tirion, he was now beginning to feel frustratingly ashamed of himself, and had gloomily resolved to apologise next time the two of them had a private moment.

Legolas drew himself to his feet, and began to pick his way through the crowd. He was weary, and depressed, and wished only to retire to his chamber. Though he had arrived barely half an hour ago, he doubted whether anyone would mark his absence if he stole away quietly enough. Lilithen would certainly not miss him, and Tirion, if he noticed at all, would probably rejoice to be rid of him. Legolas could not quite bring himself to apologise to his brother tonight; in any case, Tirion might still be furious at him, meaning that any reconciliation was probably best left until morning. The hall swarmed with people, and Legolas took care to keep to the fringes of the gathering, avoiding the glances of those he sidled past. Thus, it was not until she stood directly before him, barring his path, that he looked up into her eyes. And when he did, he almost fainted with astonishment.

"Good evening, my Prince," she said, with a delicate curtsey. "Am I to understand that you are departing from the festivities so prematurely?"

"Avlareth!" he exclaimed embarrassingly loudly. "I…this is…a most unexpected pleasure."

He bowed awkwardly, feeling every bit as wretched and graceless as he always did in her presence. The heat rose in his cheeks as she smiled her cool, smooth smile. She was more beautiful than ever. Either that, or time had merely dulled the acuteness of his memory. A thousand glorious treasures seemed to dwell in the immaculate planes and contours of her face, yet Legolas could no more seize hold of them than grasp the elusive breezes of summer. She was so vague and remote somehow, as though her fine and tantalising form merely flickered softly on the edge of tangibility.

"Indeed, the pleasure is mine," she replied gently, after a careful pause. "Yet you evade my question, sir. Would you leave this fair occasion so early?"

"Positively not," he lied flippantly. "I was merely venturing to fetch myself another goblet of wine. Would you care to join me?"

He remembered, belatedly, that she had once expressed her aversion towards intoxicating beverages, and he cursed himself silently. Avlareth merely smiled serenely, however, and made no obvious sign of distaste or disapproval.

"Certainly," she answered graciously. "Though I would sooner take a glass of water."

"But of course," he stammered.

They moved across to a trestle table bristling with a forest of silver goblets. Legolas scoured his mind frantically for something to say. Under normal circumstances, he had little difficulty in exchanging polite pleasantries with relative strangers, yet this was different altogether. He desperately desired to impress her with his wit and charm (not that he necessarily felt that he possessed either of these attributes in ample measure), to utter something astounding and scintillating, something that would enthral her so deeply that she would remain by his side for the duration of the evening – perhaps beyond. Unfortunately however, nothing even vaguely adequate sprang to mind.

"My brother, Saeglin, speaks most highly of you," Avlareth remarked after a moment of stifling silence. "You are one of his particular friends, I understand?"

"Indeed I am," Legolas assented, a little uncomfortably.

The discussion had taken a dreadful turn. Legolas had no desire whatsoever to speak of Saeglin; in fact, he would almost prefer that the conversation ceased altogether than strayed towards the subject of his friend. Though he had long known of their connection, he felt somehow that Saeglin and Avlareth occupied entirely different worlds.

"I became acquainted with your sister, Lilithen, this eve," Avlareth commented smoothly. "She is a most charming girl, and quite beautiful."

Legolas could have screamed aloud. This topic would hardly do either. Why was Avlareth so determined to discuss their respective family members? And why could _he_ think of nothing more fascinating to talk about than the state of the weather? At this rate, the conversation would never transcend the sphere of inane chitchat, and soon enough Avlareth would tire of his wooden remarks and tongue-tied responses, and politely flutter off in search of new and better acquaintances, leaving Legolas feeling as though he had quite literally been kicked in the teeth. It would not be the first time. There was simply nothing else for it – he would have to ask her to dance. He had danced with maidens quite often before (largely free of gossip and speculation, as he was not legally old enough to court anyone) though mostly out of courtesy, as he took little pleasure in the activity. The thought of asking Avlareth was utterly petrifying, but she patently set too much store by politeness to refuse him, and it would secure her company for at least a few minutes, during which time he would surely concoct _something_ clever to say. Legolas opened his mouth tentatively to make his request, but was interrupted by a sudden sharp exclamation beside him.

"Why, Prince Legolas! And Avlareth! What a pleasure to see you both."

The small, dark-haired girl stood beaming before them. Lilithen's friend, Ethrin, had approached unseen, and Legolas was left with no remotely gracious way to be rid of her. There was nothing but exuberant warmth and friendliness in her tone – she was plainly unaware that she had blundered headlong into a rather delicate situation, and had shattered all his dreams in one fell smash – but Legolas nonetheless experienced the sudden astringent urge to grind her face into the nearest wall. He had never been overly fond of Ethrin, particularly since his humiliating encounter with her some years ago. In fact he wished to coil up in embarrassment each time he set eyes on her, despite the fact that she seemed to have blithely forgotten about the incident altogether. To make matters worse, she remained the only girl he had ever kissed, which only exacerbated and deepened his resentment towards her in a strange and inarticulate way. Legolas stood in a livid silence while the two girls, who were only vaguely acquainted, engaged in empty small talk. And he could barely contain his dismay when, following a few courteous remarks from both parties, Avlareth politely excused herself and drifted off across the hall, vanishing into the crowd within seconds like a pale wisp of smoke dissipating on the breeze. Legolas turned furiously to Ethrin, making no effort to mask his scorn. Remarkably enough she appeared perfectly oblivious, grinning amiably in the face of his rage.

"My Prince," she exclaimed, her dark eyes gleaming vividly. "Would you care to dance?"

Legolas could have wept. He gazed at her, caught somewhere between rage and incredulity. Her thick, wiry, black curls were drawn back from her face, leaving her features naked to his scrutiny. He scoured her expression for some hint of devilry, and discovered nothing of the sort. Her smile was bright and sincere, her eyes brilliant with friendly exuberance. He noted, fleetingly, that she looked quite pretty in the correct light, though she was as plain as an old crow in comparison to Avlareth. He had the sudden urge to seize a goblet of wine and drain the contents upon her head.

"What am I to make of your silence?" Ethrin mused gently, her eyes glimmering with humour. "That you have no wish to join the dance, or that you are too overwhelmed by your violent passion for me to make a suitable reply?"She clearly spoke in jest, but Legolas continued to merely stare at her, speechless with fury and exasperation. "Or that you would have me coerce you?" She giggled, seizing his arm and tugging him in the direction of the dance with a surprisingly robust jerk. "For I shall have you as my dancing partner, by fair means or foul."

With that, Ethrin proceeded to turn and quite literally drag him across the room. He could have resisted, of course, if he had been determined enough, but to defy her adamant will would have required more energy than he possessed at the present time. He opened his mouth to protest, and closed it again. What was the use? She would probably only laugh if he contradicted or insulted her.

The dance was a slow and painful process. It was one of the most ancient traditional Sindarin waltzes, and its steps had been drummed into him at a very early age by his prissy dance tutor. He shuffled along mechanically, giving no thought to his movements, straining his gaze about the room for a sign of Avlareth. He fancied, once, that he caught a glimpse of her shimmering white-gold locks, but at that moment the dance required him to turn, and twirl his infernal partner by the hand. When at last the ordeal drew to an end, he bowed rigidly before Ethrin and turned to make off. To his utter dismay she followed him, linking her arm with his. He heaved a resigned sigh and strode over to a quiet corner of the hall, seizing a particularly large goblet of wine on the way. He tore his arm from her grip a little brusquely, and slumped down on to a bench against the wall. He did not invite her to join him, but she did so all the same. They sat in silence for a moment, gazing at the dancers, who were now trotting along in time to a far merrier jig – it was set to an old Silvan melody, rather than one of Oropher's grim Sindarin imports. Legolas had always found it peculiar that his grandsire had hailed from the fair and venerated realm of Doriath, renowned (among many things) for the high calibre of its minstrels, and had failed to introduce his Silvan kingdom to anything but the slowest and gloomiest of its lays.

Legolas' stomach lunged brutally, as he suddenly recognized one of the swooping dancers as Avlareth. Her pale skirts swirled around her legs as she turned in joyous spirals, her glacial-blue eyes iridescent with an exuberance he had never seen there before. Now that she had discarded her cool and stately elegance, she seemed to shine and scintillate with the elemental flicker of flame. Her moves were feral, raw, infused with a glimmering breath of magic. He almost felt relieved that fate – or rather, Ethrin – had intervened, and prevented him from dancing with her. Had he been her partner, he would most probably have been struck too senseless to move, and would have made an almighty idiot of himself before the entire kingdom.

It was with a second – and even more vicious – lurch of his stomach, that Legolas finally identified Avlareth's dancing partner. His face froze, and his knuckles bunched white around the stem of his goblet. It was Tirion. He gaped at the pair in silence, his mind racing. He scrutinised the glittering smiles upon their faces, the touch of his hand upon hers as they sprang and twirled, and struggled desperately to discern whether more lay beneath it all than simple courtesy, or friendship, or the gaiety of the dance. Ethrin must have traced his gaze, for she too glanced at the couple, and smiled. "You must be overjoyed for your brother," she commented lightly. "I hear he has found love at last! It may all be idle gossip I suppose – this realm is rife enough with it, and everyone wishes to see a Prince married – yet they do appear to quite like each other, do they not? And what a dazzling pair they make!"

Legolas felt cold and sick. The world seemed to spin and disintegrate, the earth falling away beneath him. He was powerless to do anything but sit and gaze at the fair couple, as the dance drew to a close and they drifted off across the hall arm-in-arm. They almost seemed to glide – two immaculate golden figures sailing amid the clouds. Ethrin had been horribly correct in her rather simpering observation. They _were_ a dazzling pair. Perfect, in fact. Legolas wished helplessly that he paid heed to the trifling words of the local gossip-mongers, then at least he might have been prepared for this hideous eventuality. He rose to his feet with a jerk.

"You are not leaving, surely!" Ethrin cried, still apparently oblivious to his distress. "I thought you had made some manner of pledge to always consume twice your own weight in wine before leaving a ball!"

Legolas' eyes narrowed, and he turned and strode off, jostling several of the guests in the process. He broke into a run as he neared the door, uncaring of those who marked his departure. He passed through the halls and corridors of the fortress like a storm, but not until he reached the privacy of his chamber did he allow himself to crumble suddenly to pieces, and weep as he had not done in years.


	11. Chapter 11

Part Five – Phantoms of the Past

_Envy is a terrible thing. Nothing corrodes the soul quite like it. And nothing, in my life, has incited me so far along the path of darkness. With it's cold and insidious touch it can suffuse the purest of hearts with the breath of shadow, and embitter the strongest and most joyous of alliances. There are few conflicts in this world which cannot be attributed, in some part, to envy. It lies at the root of many evils; poisoning the mind, and eroding the will._

_I soon learned the truth behind the rumours concerning my brother and Avlareth. From what I could gather the two of them were in the early stages of courtship, which is usually a long and complex process, particularly for relatively young Elves, who are generally dissuaded from marrying too young, and consequently tend to instigate rather lengthy betrothals. My only cold comfort, therefore, was that Avlareth and Tirion had not yet entered into any irrevocable union. Nor were they expected to, in the immediate future at least. It is customary, though not legally required, that a couple who wish to wed receive the blessing of their respective parents. And while it was speculated that Tirion and Avlareth had been deeply in love for several years (unbeknownst to all but their closest friends), Tirion would not think of initiating a betrothal until Thranduil returned from the war, and granted them his sanction. _

_I have never been able to articulate how I felt during that time. I was appalled by the sheer depth and violence of my feelings for Avlareth – the moiling, visceral lurch of my gut when the mere thought of her drifted like a pale ghost through the deathly silence of my mind. I became cold and withdrawn. The virulence with which I began to despise my brother was simply colossal. I tasted nothing but the brackish tang of venom at the back of my throat, gagging on the pungency of my own spite. Envy had taken root in my blood, and I succumbed to it entirely. It is not to be wondered at, I suppose – that a force, which has brought kingdoms to the ground, and may vein even the staunch sinews of the Gods with bitterness and loathing, had little trouble in conquering me. I dwelt in a darkness to which I saw no end._

_I think malice was all that threaded the shards of my heart together. And yet I had one pallid, desperate hope to which my heart still dared to cleave, like a remote jewel hanging somewhere in the deep shadows of my soul. Bleak though my situation might have seemed, I refused to relinquish my dreams of Avlareth, or to accept, truly, that she would never be mine. I did something then of which I shall always be ashamed, though at the time it seemed my only chance of salvation. I made a Vow. A Vow to sever whatever bond lay between Avlareth and my brother. Of all the decisions I have made in my long life, I have never regretted any more bitterly. Though I was motivated, to a great extent, by my honest and desperate desire for Avlareth – by my love, if love it could be named – I will not pretend that spite and selfishness played no part. No good could ever have come from such a Vow, or from any word uttered in malice and cruelty, as I would learn in due course._

_---_

The ailing spirit of summer still clung to the whispering leaves of the woodland realm, though the waspish wind that stole secretly between the ancient trees bespoke the gathering ghost of autumn. There was a sweet mustiness to the air, the subtle scent of unrest that marks the soft melancholia of the shifting season, the overture of exquisite decay. The sky was a hard and fragile blue, smudged with wind-combed strips of fraying cloud.

Legolas' footfalls resonated eerily along the cold subterranean corridor. He had lately taken to wandering the lesser-used halls and passages of the Palace, and had, to his curious delight, discovered many secret ways and chambers hewn into the darkness of the native rock, some of which did not appear to have been used since their origination. These deep, deserted halls had probably been designed as dungeons, though they had lain empty and uninhabited for long years. The young Prince, who endeavoured to shirk his official duties wherever possible, had adopted this dark region of the Palace as an occasional refuge. No one had ever thought to search for him here, though he suspected Tirion was thankful for his absence. Legolas' behaviour had, quite predictably, taken a severe turn for the worse over the recent months. Since learning of the attachment between his brother and Avlareth, the young Prince had made no effort to suppress his simmering rage against Tirion, and had viciously spurned his brother's every attempt to reason with him. The antipathy between the two brothers had mounted to an alarming level – they could barely occupy the same room without sniping and snarling at one another like two caged wolves.

Legolas was faintly aware that rumours of the family feud had leaked out into the general public consciousness. Speculation was rife that the two brothers were engaged in a bitter power-struggle, and that Legolas, young though he was, had attempted to wrest the sceptre of rule from his brother's hand (figuratively, or literally, depending on who was telling the tale) and claim sovereignty over the woodland realm in the absence of the King. It was perfectly untrue of course, as anyone in a position of genuine authority knew, though Legolas had noted the dubious glances he was now earning from certain members of the household, who evidently regarded him as a mercenary young upstart with designs on the throne. He didn't much care, provided the real motivation behind his hostility towards Tirion remained a secret.

Despite his violent need for solitude, Legolas found himself meandering up through the levels of the Palace, gravitating towards the light and the bustle of the upper floors. He could only endure the silent gloom of the dungeon-halls for several hours at a time, for even devoid of jailers and prisoners, they were a dark and ominous place to behold. He made his way towards the main vestibule, hoping to escape the stone confines of the fortress unseen and spend the remainder of the day wandering the ways of the forest alone. As he crossed the echoing hall, there came a sudden, high-pitched exclamation from behind him. He turned with a jolt, and beheld the small scullery maid, Glórien, hurrying towards him.

"My Prince!" she squealed. "They are all searching for you!"

She seized hold of his arm, her huge green eyes wide and anxious.

"Do not _touch_ me!" he snapped.

"Forgive me, Sir!" she gasped, withdrawing her hand as though she had been stung. "Yet you must make haste. You are wanted urgently in your brother's study. Word has come from the marches of Mordor, I hear tell."

"Of the battle?" He demanded.

"Aye, Sir. Though I know not what goes forth."

Without another word, Legolas turned and hurtled up the stairs. He passed like a flame through the passages leading towards Tirion's study, and threw the door open upon a deathly silent room. His brother was there, surrounded by a gaggle of Oropher's chief advisors. Their faces were all as stiff and cold as stone. The royal scribe, Inglon, sat quietly in the corner rolling a sheet of parchment into a scroll. The paper was adorned with his calm and careful lettering – a message that had, presumably, just now been dictated to him by the Prince. Tirion glanced up and addressed Legolas quietly. "My brother, news has reached us at last concerning the progress of the Allied Host," he reported in a low, formal voice, not meeting Legolas' gaze. "The reports claim that the Silvan regiment, led by King Oropher, launched an impetuous assault upon the forces of Mordor, against the counsel of Gil-Galad. They breached the Black Gate and besieged the fortress of Barad-dûr, yet our grandsire was slain in the attempt."

There was a silence, during which Legolas merely gazed at his brother blankly.

"Our father lives," Tirion continued shakily. "He has assumed command over the Greenwood host in the absence of King Oropher."

Legolas stood quietly, attempting to digest the disturbing news. Neither he, nor any of his siblings had enjoyed a close relationship with their grandsire. Oropher's stern and remote manner had hardly been conducive to affection, and Legolas could not recall the King having ever regarded him with anything but stony indifference (when the young Prince was well-behaved), and occasionally contempt (when he wasn't). Nonetheless, the news of Oropher's demise shook him to the core, with a horror that was not quite grief. Somehow, he simply could not adjust to the notion that he would never see his grandsire again.

"We must think of the Kingdom," Galdír said stiffly, turning his stoic eyes upon Tirion. "Word of the King's demise will greatly disturb and distress the people. My Prince, you must address your public before the day is out, and speak words of courage and comfort to them. Such comfort as we can design."

"Aye, I know it," Tirion answered, his head bowed. "Inglon, would you kindly bring me the scroll."

The scribe rose and handed it to the Prince, inclining his head respectfully. Tirion smoothed the parchment out across the desk, dipped his quill in ink and made his mark upon it.

"Thank you," the Prince stated, his tone quiet and void of emotion. "You are dismissed, Inglon."

"Very good, Sir," the scribe responded softly, bowing low before exiting the room, casting Legolas a subtly suspicious glance as he departed.

"My brother," Tirion said gravely, carefully furling his scroll. "I ask you to bear this message to Telemir of the Home Guard. His outpost lies three leagues north of the Palace, as I am sure you are aware. Please ask him to relay the news to the other officers. I would sooner they learned of the King's death from an official source. I am trusting you with this task, Legolas. It is of great importance." He held out the scroll, and fixed his brother with a slightly red-rimmed gaze.

"Am I to be grateful?" Legolas muttered darkly, plucking the scroll from Tirion's grasp.

"My brother," Tirion replied wearily. "In light of what has befallen, can we not cast our paltry differences aside? There is no good reason for the enmity between us to continue – there was never any sense to it in the first place, unless I am much mistaken. I truly regret whatever part I have played in this folly."

Legolas met his brother's gaze. Tirion was plainly attempting to extend the hand of friendship and forgiveness – a rather noble gesture, given Legolas' recent spate of appalling behaviour. The elder Prince clearly had not identified the actual source of his brother's hostility, and still regarded their feud as a matter of commonplace sibling rivalry. In truth, Tirion was an infuriatingly difficult person to despise, and had Legolas' rage and anguish concerning Avlareth not been quite so acute, he would have had severe difficulty in perpetuating the antagonism. As it was, her ghost seemed to hover between them even now, instilling his blood with a hard and silent pain. It was a constant ache, as sharp and bitter as a blade twisting between his ribs. His dark eyes hardened. If Tirion was angling for an apology, he was going to be sorely dissatisfied.

"Good day," Legolas snapped coldly. He turned and left the chamber without being dismissed, slamming the door as he departed.

---

The noon sun hung like a burnished pearl in the dazzling blue heavens. The early autumn weather was unseasonably warm, and the glossy green leaves of the forest glinted smoothly in the heat, wafting in the restless breeze that slid its way between the whispering branches. A multitude of little white butterflies haunted the flower-lathered slopes and dells, rising and settling like quivering clouds of smoke.

Legolas passed through the bright woodland world in silence. He had set forth from the Palace an hour ago, laden with the scroll, and rather more provisions than he was likely to need – the weather was fair enough, and he had decided to remain out of doors for as long as he pleased. He could not face the prospect of returning to the Palace tonight. The open air and the sunlight caused his spirits to rise a little, and prevented his thoughts from becoming thoroughly enmeshed in sorrow and darkness. The further he was from Tirion, and from his pale, embittered memories of Avlareth, the better.

Of a sudden, Legolas fancied he caught a faint sound from ahead. It was at least forty feet distant, but clear. Someone was tramping through the forest, making a ridiculous amount of noise (by Elvish standards). Legolas smirked, hazarding a fairly strong guess as to the source of the clamour, and quickened his pace. After a minute of slipping silently between the trees, he spied the ungainly flaxen-haired figure ahead, travelling in almost the same direction as he was. Crouching swiftly to the ground, he picked up a small round pebble and aimed it deftly at the figure's head. There came a muffled exclamation, and Legolas giggled softly.

"_Legolas_!" Saeglin cried, his blue eyes wide as saucers. "Why must you always creep up behind me!"

"It is difficult not to, my friend," Legolas chuckled, moving forward and clapping his companion on the back. "You make as much racket as a small herd of oxen."

It was true. The Elven race was famed for its poise and effortless grace, but there were a few unfortunate exceptions to the rule – a small number of awkward and inelegant individuals – and Saeglin was most certainly one of them. "Where are you bound, anyway?" Saeglin asked, a little moodily

"Telemír's outpost," Legolas answered shortly, brandishing his scroll. "I bear a message from the _Crown Prince_ Tirion."

"It is true, then?" Saeglin spurted bluntly, his eyes wide. "About the King, I mean."

"King Oropher fell in battle on the marches of Mordor," Legolas replied quietly.

"I am sorry," Saeglin said with a hint of quiet sympathy, lowering his eyes. "Are you well?"

Legolas was reluctant to explain the curious relationship he had shared with his grandsire. Despite their obvious blood-bond, Oropher had been his King, and little more. It would have sounded callous to point out that he himself probably had little more affection for Oropher than the average member of the Greenwood population. But in truth, the virtue of being the King's grandson seemed to have earned him few enough privileges, least of all any kind of intimacy with Oropher himself.

"Of course," Legolas affirmed, turning away from his friend.

There was a long and uncomfortable pause.

"Do you wish to journey with me, to Telemír's outpost?" Legolas continued awkwardly.

"Aye, if you desire it," Saeglin responded, grinning lopsidedly. "I _was_ on my way home, but mother can wait a few hours I suppose."

Legolas smiled – mostly for show, though the sight of his friend's crooked smirk had indeed raised his mood a little – and started on his way, with Saeglin traipsing noisily at his side.


	12. Chapter 12

The outpost of Telemir was essentially a large wooden talan set in the branches of a particularly tall and gnarled oak tree. It was barely discernable from the ground, and positively invisible to the untrained eye. Cunningly concealed though it was, the post was large enough to accommodate half a garrison. It was constantly inhabited, if not by Telemir himself then by one of his subordinate officers or guards. By the time the large tree came into view, Legolas guessed that whoever was on duty was well aware of his and Saeglin's presence (from the noise his friend was making if nothing else). "You'd better wait here," he advised Saeglin. "I shan't be long if I can help it."

He strode forward and tapped twice, lightly, on the trunk. Within seconds, a rope ladder coiled down between the branches to the forest floor. It was as Legolas had suspected; his approach had not escaped the vigil of the soldier on duty. He scaled the ladder nimbly, at last reaching the wide wooden platform. Three Elves awaited him in silence. Two of them were young foot-soldiers Legolas didn't recall having met before, but the foremost of the three he hazily identified as Telemír's second-in-command. "Hail, Legolas son of Thranduil," the tall soldier declared, inclining his head stiffly. "Calendil of the Guard at your service."

"Greetings Calendil," Legolas answered, a little disinterestedly. "I bear a message from Prince Tirion." He passed the scroll deftly to Calendil.

The soldier unfurled it with swift and practised ease, his shrewd grey eyes sliding briefly along the elegant text. Within seconds, he raised his piercing gaze to Legolas, and fixed him with a measuring stare. "My condolences," Calendil said formally. "Oropher's death will be a sore loss to the Kingdom. Please extend my sympathies to your kin."

"Of course," Legolas answered, as graciously as he was able. "My brother requests that you relay this message to the other outposts. Thank you."

He bowed and made to leave, but Calendil interrupted his departure with a rigid wave of his hand. "Naturally, your noble brother's command shall be fulfilled," he answered pointedly, glancing sharply at Legolas. "Prince Tirion has proved himself a worthy ruler of this realm. His authority ought not to be opposed by those of lesser merit and entitlement."

Legolas took the point immediately. Calendil was clearly one of the many folk who had heeded the rumours of Legolas' supposed plot to usurp his brother's position of power. He glared into the soldier's hard grey eyes. It was difficult not to feel indignant, and a little disturbed, that half the Kingdom seemed to think him guilty of conspiring against the Crown Prince. "I quite agree," Legolas retorted. "Subordinates ought to know their place, particularly when they lack the wit or the insight to challenge their superiors. Farewell, Calendil of the Guard." With that, Legolas turned and made his way back down the rope-ladder to the forest floor.

Calendil's eyes narrowed as the Prince departed, but he had the sense to keep quiet.

Legolas leapt the final rungs and landed lightly on the ground. He made off angrily into the forest, beckoning Saeglin on wordlessly behind him.

As he marched on through the forest, deviating rather from the trodden path and branching out into the dense and tangled regions of the forest, Legolas pondered his situation in silence. His encounter with Calendil had shaken him almost more than the news of Oropher's passing. He admonished himself for being so stunningly selfish, yet try as he might, he could muster nothing more than a detached kind of sadness at the death of his grandsire, while Calendil's cutting comment continued to reverberate maddeningly through his memory. Some credence at least must have been given to the rumours concerning his alleged conspiracy against Tirion, if even the common soldiery had taken to reproaching him about it. He also felt uneasy about his own words to the soldier – he had probably done little enough to undermine Calendil's impression of him as an arrogant young upstart with designs on the throne. Thranduil had tirelessly lectured his children to always treat their subjects with courtesy and respect, that they might receive it in turn. And while Legolas had never set as much store by diplomacy as his father, he realised now that he might have handled the situation better. He ought to have risen above the matter, and maintained an air of polite dignity, rather than retaliating in like fashion. On the other hand, Calendil probably regretted the incident more keenly than he did. No common soldier needed a Prince as an enemy, however tarnished that Prince's reputation might have been.

"Legolas!" Saeglin yelped at last. "Do you not think we ought to turn back soon?"

Legolas halted in his tracks, startled out of his bleak reverie. They had wandered into an unfamiliar area of the forest, and he guessed that even if they turned back immediately, it would probably be after dark before they found their way home. He slumped down with his back to a mighty tree, glaring bleakly down at the forest floor.

"Legolas?" Saeglin repeated a little uncomfortably.

"I'm staying here," Legolas declared glumly.

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Right here?"

"_Yes!"_

"Oh dear."

Legolas glanced up at his friend, and they both began suddenly to laugh. Saeglin sat down opposite him, with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. The smile faded from Legolas' face, and he stared down at his own hands. "I'm not going back to the Palace tonight," he explained quietly. "You return home, if you wish."

"But Legolas," Saeglin objected. "I don't know the way! You led us out to this place."

"Well _I_ don't know where we are either," Legolas rejoined. "It was a – a whim, really."

"What?" Saeglin demanded, his eyes wide with exasperation. "I thought you had at least some idea where we were bound, or I should never have followed you!"

"It's merely a case of journeying due south until you strike the westward path," Legolas answered dolefully. "You'll find your way."

"My mother's going to be furious," Saeglin moaned, drawing himself to his feet and pacing the forest floor agitatedly. "Incidentally, you're being utterly ridiculous. You can't simply stay here all night."

"I beg to differ."

"What will your brother say?"

"I don't _care_!" Legolas snapped.

Saeglin stopped in his tracks and sat down opposite Legolas again, looking a little concerned.

"I oughtn't to have dragged you out here," Legolas said quietly after a moment, bowing his head. "We're miles from home. I was barely paying attention to my own steps."

"My friend, are you quite well?" Saeglin asked.

There was a long and awkward pause. Legolas took a deep breath.

"Saeglin, have you heard any – rumours – concerning my brother and I? That I have designs on the throne?"

Saeglin looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

"But of course you have," Legolas continued bitterly.

"Legolas, no one heeds those foolish tales," Saeglin replied a little haltingly.

"Well clearly _some_ folk do."

"No one worthy of your time would believe such things of you," Saeglin insisted. "Even if you _were_ to desire a position of higher power – which I very much doubt – you are far too decent to conspire against your own brother, as all who truly know you can testify."

Legolas could have beaten his own head against the tree trunk. Saeglin's faith in the nobility of his character was simply appalling. In truth, Legolas _was_ guilty of scheming against Tirion, though in an entirely different manner than was generally believed. He had, after all, pledged to break whatever bond lay between his brother and Avlareth – though Saeglin was the last person he would discuss that particular subject with. Already he had begun to regret the bitterness and severity of his vow. He felt ashamed for having uttered such dreadful and malicious words, though he knew in his heart that he could not revoke them, and _would_ not, even if it were possible. Since learning of the attachment between Avlareth and Tirion, he had never even toyed with the idea of simply letting the matter lie. Nothing in the world seemed as significant as his violent, consuming need to be close to Avlareth. And his resentment against Tirion seemed to increase with his every breath.

Perhaps he did indeed deserve the scorn and suspicion of the kingdom, misplaced though it was. In any case, he had done nothing to warrant Saeglin's naïve and unreserved faith in him.

"Legolas, give no more thought to the matter," Saeglin said softly. "'Tis idle gossip and nothing more. Very few folk give credence to it; most people are far too preoccupied with the war to give thought to such empty and foolish lies."

Legolas raised a small smile, mostly for Saeglin's sake.

"And now, my friend," Saeglin continued, grinning. "I shall agree to tempt the wrath of my mother and remain here in the forest with you tonight. On one condition."

"Yes?" Legolas chuckled.

"That we move on from this place, and roam a little further afield," Saeglin suggested. "I realise that you've developed a peculiar attachment to that tree, but I think it has an unfriendly look. If we're to linger in the forest for a night, we might as well explore."

Legolas acceded with a silent nod. They wandered off at last through the pathless maze of trees, unspeaking, unthinking of their steps, until the soft shades of twilight began to fall, and they lay down to rest in a sheltered dell, awaiting the light of morning.

---

Dawn hung huge and vivid in the West, flashing in tongues of frosted flame across the rose-flushed heavens. Red-clotted clouds lay crumpled at the world's rim, like reefed galleons drowning in an ocean of silken magma. The world was chill and silent. A sly breeze shifted its way between the trees, and tore the crimson tracts of cloud into fire-fanged spears impaling the furthest reaches of the morning sky.

Legolas and Saeglin stared up into the livid sunrise. They had wandered far afield the previous night, and neither of them had much idea where they were.

"Which way do you think home lies?" Saeglin ventured nervously.

"Have you no sense of direction at all?" Legolas chuckled, a little incredulous at his friend's total bafflement.

"You _know_ I haven't," Saeglin answered a little defensively.

"Well, I must admit I've never laid eyes on this place before," Legolas rejoined. "But we ought to journey south and east, I think. That is if we _desire_ to see the lights of home – I for one would sooner linger out here."

"Surely you jest! My mother will be simmering with fury by now," Saeglin objected, looking flustered. "How far from home are we?"

"Five leagues – perhaps four," Legolas shrugged.

Saeglin whimpered a little theatrically, and started off in a vague easterly direction. Legolas followed, smirking. After a couple of hours, they struck a small path leading almost due south.

"I know where we are!" Saeglin exclaimed, his eyes widening. "And you were quite right, we _are_ almost four leagues from home."

He began to hurry forward at an alarmingly swift pace, breaking suddenly into a run.

"Saeglin! We are _not_ running all the way ba–" Legolas began, and broke off mid-sentence.

About twenty yards ahead, the trees began to clear a little, and the path broke off sharply to the left. The slender trail led up a grassy slope crowned by a tall stone building. It was clearly a residence of some kind – most military structures merely consisted of large wooden platforms amid the trees, much like the outpost of Telemir. Still, it was rare to see the indigenous folk of Greenwood dwelling in such homes as this. They generally resided in light wooden huts and houses, or sometimes talans amid the trees as they had done in ancient times. This particular house was unusually grand and stately, and Legolas surmised that it probably belonged to one of the high-born Silvan families who had ruled the realm in clannish pockets before being united under the banner of King Oropher.

"See?" Saeglin exclaimed breathlessly.

"Who dwells here?" Legolas asked.

"Lord Airendîr!" Saeglin exclaimed, his eyes wide. "You did not know?"

Legolas looked at his friend a little quizzically. In his opinion, Saeglin was behaving rather oddly. He had vaguely heard of Lord Airendîr, but saw no reason why his dwelling place would be of any particular interest.

"He is married to your aunt, the lady Tamiel!" Saeglin cried. "Have you never visited her?"

Without waiting for an answer, Saeglin started along the path that led up the gentle hill towards the house.

"_Saeglin_! What are you doing?" Legolas demanded.

"We ran out of supplies last night, Legolas. I for one am famished!"

"And you plan to beg for food at the door!" Legolas shouted, stopping in his tracks. "I want no part in this idiotic venture."

"Come, we'll enter by the servants' quarters. My sister works here you know, as lady Tamiel's handmaiden," he called over his shoulder, quite unperturbed by Legolas' protests. "I'm well acquainted with most of the staff. The housekeeper is particularly fond of me – she always gives me food, whether I ask for it or not."

Legolas groaned, and followed his friend a little apprehensively, the splendid house looming tall before them.


	13. Chapter 13

A dense regiment of ancient trees wreathed the base of the hill, and encroached upon its eastern slope, hugging the left-hand turrets of the majestic stone building. Saeglin broke off from the main path, passing by the elegant double-doored entrance, making through the shade of the trees towards a small side entrance.

"You and your infernal stomach," Legolas grumbled, as they passed inside the echoing halls of the building.

"They'll welcome you too, I expect," Saeglin commented offhandedly. "You're the nephew of the mistress of the house after all."

"I've never even met the woman," he retorted under his breath.

They passed down a long narrow stairwell, a number of dim little corridors, and through the little red door to the kitchen. It was a small, humble space – or at least it seemed so to Legolas, who was accustomed to rather grander surroundings – but bright and pleasant nonetheless. The wooden shelves and benches glistened with a host of utensils, jars, tins, boxes and corked bottles, stacked to the brim with implements and supplies. The floor was scuffed and dented, though it glimmered in the warm lantern-light as only a tirelessly polished surface can.

As Saeglin had predicted, the housekeeper greeted them warmly, and began plying them both with food within seconds. Legolas ate very little. He felt oddly uncomfortable with the situation, and after the compulsory introductions had been made he fell silent and picked delicately at his food while Saeglin ate like a horse and chatted amicably to the housekeeper, and various other members of staff who happened to wander by. After almost half an hour, when Saeglin appeared to have finally eaten his fill, the housekeeper turned to Legolas and addressed him politely. "You'll be wanting to visit the lady of the house, I guess," she commented mildly.

"I – I wouldn't wish to disturb her unduly," Legolas began nervously.

"Fear not, young master, I'm sure the mistress would be delighted to receive you," she smiled at him serenely, and turned to the silent serving girl. "Aliniel, run and inform lady Tamiel of the Prince's presence. See that she is free to receive him."

The maiden nodded briskly, and scampered off at once. Legolas felt the heat rise in his face. The thought of coming face to face with lady Tamiel made him inexplicably anxious. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Aliniel returned and curtseyed carefully before Legolas.

"The lady Tamiel wishes to see you now," she declared softly. "Would you care to follow me, Sir?"

Legolas inclined his head brusquely, and followed the slender maiden through the door and up a series of green-carpeted staircases. Though the house was large and luxurious in comparison to most residences of the realm, it seemed plain and rustic to one who was accustomed to the echoing grandeur of the Palace, with its elegant, high-ceilinged halls and lavishly decorated chambers. Legolas felt a fleeting twinge of shame. He had never before considered quite how privileged his own existence had been, or how ignorant he was of the plight of others.

After passing through a succession of narrow stone corridors, the serving girl stopped and tapped lightly on a wide oak-panelled door. Without pausing to decipher the muffled response from within the chamber, she flung the door open and passed inside.

"May I present Prince Legolas, milady?" She declared, beckoning him inside.

Legolas entered the chamber and bowed low. He could scarcely muster the courage to raise his eyes.

"Thank you, Aliniel. You are dismissed," came the low reply.

Legolas glanced up at last, and found himself standing in a large and comfortable chamber. Lady Tamiel sat calmly by the wide window, with Avlareth perched lightly beside her.

"Please take a seat, young sir," Tamiel requested with a smooth sweep of her hand.

Legolas obeyed dazedly, settling in a chair opposite the two ladies.

It was assuredly the first time he had ever knowingly shared a room with Avlareth, and not bestowed his full and undivided attention upon her. His lip trembled as he stared into the fine, dark eyes of lady Tamiel. She reminded him so poignantly of his mother that it took every ounce of his self-restraint not to fling himself into her arms and weep. She was small and slender, with jet-black hair tumbling to her waist in loose liquid coils. Her face bore so many acute similarities to Líriel's – the smooth, delicate line of her jaw, the stern sweep of her brow, and the shrewd arch of her eyebrows – that they might almost have been twins. It was as though his mother had been dredged up from the haunted depths of his memory, and cast once again into existence. Legolas sat mute and frozen, as she regarded him silently with her bird-bright eyes.

"Well young master," Tamiel began at length, her gaze never once straying from his face. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at long last."

"The pleasure is most assuredly mine, lady," he answered automatically. "I thank you most sincerely for receiving my visit. It is an honour to sit here before you."

Her eyes narrowed a little, and an unreadable expression settled itself across her features. "Are those your words or your father's?" she asked, a hint of sharpness pervading her tone.

"Both, perhaps," he replied, sensing that more lay beneath her words than she would have him know. "Does that displease you?"

"I care nothing for empty ceremony," she declared, arching an eyebrow. "Or words spoken in hollow courtesy. I would sooner feel the caustic bite of an insult than suffer the disingenuous flattery of a courtier."

"In that respect we are alike, lady," Legolas remarked, grinning subtly.

"You received a rigid enough upbringing, I'll wager, at the hands of the good King Thranduil."

Legolas did not know quite how to reply. There was a bitterness in her tone that he could not account for, or begin to understand. He studied her face closely. The similarities she bore to his mother seemed to gently ebb away – now that he examined her more scrupulously, he realised that the resemblance between the two sisters was largely superficial. While they shared a certain eccentricity of countenance, they could not have been more dissimilar in speech and expression. Líriel had been bright and vivacious, tirelessly high-spirited and utterly disarming, whereas Tamiel was prickly and reserved, impossible to decipher. Her eyes were like shuttered windows; shadowy and unfathomable. When Legolas made no reply to her rather cutting comment, she fixed her eyes upon the window and sighed. "I have deeply regretted the absence of my sister's children from my life. I hope you do not begrudge the lack of correspondence between us. It was not my choice."

"Nor mine, lady," Legolas replied, not sure quite what reply she expected of him.

"I trust you are aware of the strife that has passed between your father's kin and myself," she said, suddenly looking him directly in the eye.

"I do not recall hearing of it," Legolas responded, half-truthfully. He had always been vaguely aware of the rift she spoke of, but he knew nothing of its cause or origin.

"Ah well, Thranduil was always the very picture of discretion," she remarked mordantly. "Very well. If you know nought of the matter, I will tell you no more."

Legolas was desperately curious, but possessed enough sense not to pursue the subject directly.

"You will stay here tonight, of course," Tamiel announced abruptly.

"I – I truly ought to return home soon, my lady, though it grieves me," Legolas began hurriedly.

"No. I shall send word to the Palace at once. The Crown Prince can spare you for one night, I am sure," she insisted, before turning to her handmaiden. "Avlareth, will you see to the matter please? A messenger ought to be dispatched immediately if word is to reach the Palace before nightfall."

"Of course, my lady," she said coolly, rising to her feet and drifting elegantly across the room.

Legolas watched Avlareth leave dispiritedly. During the last few minutes, his tentative gaze had flickered only once in her direction, though the fierce jolt of his stomach informed him that his yearning for her had scarcely abated. He had not dared to allow his thoughts to dwell upon her – she had a tendency of befuddling his wits by her mere presence, and thus far the agile conversation and oddly commanding presence of lady Tamiel had required his full attention.

Avlareth drew the door closed behind her, leaving Legolas and his aunt quite alone.

"Have you truly heard nothing of me?" she asked, a faint softness creeping into her voice. "Nothing at all?"

"No, my lady, save that you are my mother's sister."

"Perhaps I ought to feel insulted," she replied, a cloud of sorrow drifting across her pale features. "I think I would sooner be despised and vilified than ignored, or forgotten altogether. But there is no helping matters now, I suppose. By the way, you may call me Tamiel. I will not suffer this _my lady_ business from my own kin."

"As you wish," Legolas answered, feeling a little anxious.

"I was sorry to hear of your grandsire's death," she remarked after a pause. "It is not a fate I would wish upon any soul, to die in that dreadful place. My own beloved is at war, and though he lives yet, I do not believe I could draw another breath into my body if he perished."

"Your husband, the Lord Airendîr?" Legolas inquired softly.

"Indeed," she answered shortly. "Anyway, let us not dwell on such gloomy matters. I wish to learn more of you. Will you tell me of yourself? I have missed the last forty years of your life, so no detail is small enough to neglect!"

They spoke for almost an hour, before Avlareth interrupted them politely, informing lady Tamiel that she was required downstairs. Apparently running the household was no effortless task, and required a great deal of Tamiel's time, particularly since her husband's departure to war. She departed in a fluster, informing Legolas that she would see him at lunch in one hour. Legolas wandered idly down to the kitchens in search of Saeglin, lost in thought. He rather liked his aunt, despite her somewhat abrupt and peculiar manner. The more they had spoken together, the better he was able to predict and understand the strange, shifting nuances of her mood and tone. She was frank to the point of brusqueness, but unflinchingly honest, and quite humorous in a dry sort of way. Furthermore, he felt able to speak plainly and openly in her presence, such as he had rarely dared to do with other members of his kin.

He opened the door to the kitchens, and found them deserted even of staff. He sighed heavily, wondering where Saeglin could have gone. Noticing a small door at the end of the kitchen, he moved across and pushed it deftly open. It gave onto a small stone courtyard, walled in on three sides and leading off down the tree-clad slope on the fourth. Legolas felt his heart lurch painfully against the confines of his ribcage. Avlareth stood there, staring out across the forest in silence. She jolted violently as the door clicked closed behind Legolas, and turned swiftly to face him.

"Forgive me," he said quickly. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Oh, that is quite all right," she answered breathlessly, looking uncharacteristically flustered. "I was lost in thought."

Legolas moved closer towards her, as though drawn inexorably. Avlareth looked oddly wistful, though she gave him a stiff smile as he came to stand beside her. They stood a safe enough distance apart that Legolas did not feel in immediate danger of seizing hold of her, as he so desperately desired to do. Yet the air between them seemed to throb and scintillate with tension.

"Are you well?" he asked after an excruciating moment of silence.

"Oh, yes," she answered unconvincingly. "Yes, I am a little weary, that is all."

He glanced across at her. There was clearly something amiss, but she was evidently unwilling to discuss whatever was troubling her. She was maddeningly enigmatic at times. Legolas wondered bitterly whether she ever divulged her innermost feelings to Tirion, or whether she was as much of a mystery to his brother as she was to him.

"How do you enjoy working here?" he asked politely, trying not to choke on the spite evoked by thoughts of Tirion.

"I like it quite well," she answered quietly. "Lady Tamiel is a fine woman, and a fair mistress. I cannot complain about my life here, and yet I would wish –"

She paused, as though fumbling with her words. Legolas gazed intently at her delicate profile, outlined starkly in the dazzling noon sun. Her ice-blue eyes glimmered mistily.

"What would you wish?" he persisted.

"I want for nothing here, truly, and yet my heart lies elsewhere. I so seldom visit my home, and look upon the faces of those I have left behind."

Legolas sighed, and glanced out across the forest, wrenching his gaze from Avlareth with some difficulty. She could not have put it much plainer – she was missing Tirion. He stared up helplessly into the bright heavens, letting his gaze slide off into the cloud-floured horizon. He could feel his hopes and dreams trickling away, her words driving a splinter of agony deeper and deeper into his fractured heart. He would have wept, but for the strange emptiness that suddenly gaped open within him. His hands hung limp by his sides, and a mute stiffness held his face blank and frozen.

A sudden breeze billowed upon the air. Legolas blinked, and his cold stupor shattered like glass, evaporating on the wind as swiftly as it had descended. He turned once again to Avlareth. Her white-gold hair erupted into a pale cloud swelling upon the wind, and her face had turned almost imperceptibly towards him. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye. He placed a hand on her shoulder without quite knowing why, relishing the faint warmth of her flesh beneath the silken sheath of her gown. She turned, and looked him full in the face. There was an odd gleam in her eyes that he could not define, or place. Why was he so horribly unable to read her expressions? Was she truly so complex, so remote, or was it his own inadequacy, his blindness? In either case, whatever thoughts or emotions were shifting delicately behind her white and faultless visage were entirely beyond the realm of his comprehension.

Suddenly, there came a loud thud from behind them. Legolas snatched his hand from Avlareth's shoulder as though he had been stung, the nerves of his finger-tips throbbing and jangling where they had come into contact with her flesh. The kitchen door had burst open, and Saeglin appeared in the doorway, chewing loudly on a great thick slab of bread. He grinned affably and tramped over to join them, completely oblivious to the awkward situation before him.

"So this is where you've been hiding, Legolas," he said good-naturedly. "I've scoured the whole house for you!"

"I wasn't hiding," Legolas replied defensively.

Saeglin's brow furrowed, and he seemed about to reply when Avlareth interrupted him archly. "Saeglin, do not speak with your mouth full. It quite turns my stomach."

"Oh honestly, you're as bad as mother," Saeglin moaned, taking another mammoth bite.

"I ought to return to my duties," Avlareth commented briskly, turning on her heel and retreating back into the house, her steps clicking lightly on the stone-flagged floor. She muttered a hurried farewell to the two boys, and bestowed a lingering glance upon Legolas as she turned and drew the door closed behind her.

---

Legolas did not see Avlareth again until the next day, as he and Saeglin stood on the stone doorstep of the grand house, saying their farewells to Lady Tamiel. Avlareth stood pale and silent beside her mistress. Dark crescents ringed her eyes, and her face had a hollow, haunted look. She barely spoke a word to either Legolas or Saeglin, and seemed determined not to raise her eyes even once, perhaps for fear of what she might betray.

Lady Tamiel seemed somewhat distracted as she bade Legolas farewell – so much so that she overlooked the fact that he was gawping at her handmaiden like a witless idiot – until he made to leave, and she suddenly looked him straight in the eye and clasped his hand. "Please Legolas, would you visit me again, when you can spare some time?" she asked hastily.

"Of course, Tamiel," he answered, smiling.

They met one another's gaze for a long moment, and her eyes misted suddenly with tears. She turned away, and relinquished his hand with a brusque motion.

"Farewell, Legolas," she said stiffly, turning stridently and vanishing into the dim silence of her house.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N – a rather _long_ update now…many thanks to my reviewers so far. Though new ones are always welcome of course! ;)

* * *

Part Six – the Call to Betrayal

_The summer of 3434 faded to a pale dusting of memory, and I faded with it. In those days, the incessant surge of time was so very poignant and intense to me. Each passing hour seemed to corrode my bones, and curdle the blood as it crept through my veins. There was a chasm within me, a yawning gulf that I only very dimly perceived. It had hung huge and heavy in my chest since the day of my mother's death, and I had never stopped running from it, flinching ceaselessly away from my pain, blinding myself to the truth as though my only salvation lay in the promise of oblivion. It was long years before I would come to fully accept the vast and tangled web of emotion within me, still more before I grew to understand it, and extricate myself from the mangled wreckage of fear, rage and loathing in which I had, half-unwittingly, chosen to dwell. It was an inevitable lesson, yet for some reason, I seemed quite intent upon learning it the hard way._

_It is no simple thing to articulate. In my youth, an unguessable weight seemed to press down upon me, spurring me ever onwards, further and further away from the ghastly silence that haunted the innermost caverns of my being. Hemmed in from every angle by the strictures of unresolved anguish, I released my turmoil in the only manner I deemed possible. I took refuge in my own fury, clinging fiercely to the hard, arrogant shell I had assembled about myself. Senseless as it seems to me now, I used to feel an urgent need to conceal my sorrow, my powerlessness – my awful vulnerability – from the prying eyes of the world. I truly believed that if I let down my guard for even a minute, my anguish would seep helplessly through the confines of my skull, and spill forth for all to see. In truth, my disguise scarcely sufficed to deceive those who truly knew me. I exasperated my kin, yet I believe they identified my tailored mask of aggression and enforced bravado for the desperate façade it was. For the most part, therefore, they endured my abysmal behaviour with a tireless patience that really ought to have left me thoroughly ashamed. Unfortunately, my attention was firmly rooted elsewhere. _

_I continued to visit my aunt Tamiel whenever the opportunity arose. I confess that my reasons were only partly legitimate – while I had developed a genuine affection for Tamiel, it was the prospect of seeing Avlareth that kept me returning to the house with such regularity. To my ongoing disappointment, however, she was never anything but her cool and reticent self in my presence. It is peculiar that in the face of such apparent adversity I did not abandon my scheme to break the bond between her and my brother. I had no plan or strategy in mind, and yet I knew, with a strange and inexplicable conviction, that I would succeed. What I neglected to consider was that my success would bring me more shame and heartache than the searing touch of envy had ever caused._

_I gave no thought to the future, and my soul seemed to freeze within me whenever I considered the past. I had no option but to devote myself to the swift and ephemeral pulse of the moment. I was like a bolt of white energy, self-propelled and self-consuming. I have never been blessed with the careful, dispassionate serenity of nature afforded to many of my kind – I could not bear the long, slow ache of sorrow with grace and solemnity, as some can. I do not seek to absolve myself of responsibility for my actions, merely to explain what lay behind them. I was at fault, undeniably, though I was strangely blind to it at the time. The years passed, and drew me no closer to grasping the truth of my situation._

_The host of Greenwood, led by the new King Thranduil, returned from war in the late autumn of the year 3441. It was a glad time, and the festivities lasted for several weeks (even I managed to put my habitual misery to one side for a time). However, as the euphoric haze of the revelry began to fade, no one could deny the subtle trace of sorrow hanging silently in its wake. It took some time to adjust to the new strangeness of Thranduil's reign. Our kingdom had never before been touched by war, and the absence of those lost on the marches of Mordor was keenly felt, thankful though we were to see the faces of those who had returned. Nothing was quite the same as before. It was nothing so visceral as anguish that we felt, yet a faint poignancy seemed to vein the world – the subtle scent of decline, which we all must eventually learn to endure. The sun seemed to shine out a little dimmer upon this new and fallen world, and there was a trace of grief in my father's eyes that no time would ever assuage._

---

A chill and lucid breeze threaded its wistful way across the woodland realm, filtering off into the deep amnesia of the grey-hazed horizon. The voice of impending winter muttered coldly upon the air, wandering sadly between the trees and drifting up into the cloud-writhen gulf of the sky.

Legolas sat slumped by his window, somnolent and half-senseless. The previous night he had indulged in a session of ridiculously heavy drinking with his friends, and was now feeling a little off-colour. Balthar had returned from the war, unscathed and seemingly unchanged by his experiences over the past years, though his time on the marches of Mordor could hardly have been pleasant. They had stayed up far into the night, imbibing cask after cask of ale and laughing and jesting, as they had not done in years. Legolas had forgotten quite how much of a haven his friends could provide from the bleak, uncomfortable business of life, though he was suffering now for his night of blind intoxication. There came a sudden tap at his chamber door, and he groaned under his breath. "Enter," he said drearily.

The door swung open, and a small Elven maid hovered tentatively across the threshold of his doorway. It was Glórien, the serving girl, considering him with her large, fretful green eyes. "I bring word from the King," she said nervously, with a slightly belated curtsey. "You are required in your father's study at once. Follow me, if it pleases you, my Prince."

Legolas rolled his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. "It does _not_ please me," he muttered, resting his head in his hands.

"The King instructed me to ensure that you obeyed his wishes, Sir," she said quietly, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Legolas' brow furrowed slightly, and he gave Glórien a pointed look. He doubted greatly whether this small, timid girl was capable of forcing him bodily to his father's study. She didn't even seem brave enough to meet his gaze. In any case, he had no real intention of disobeying his father's command – he merely intended to complain about it. "I am on my way," he answered brusquely, turning his face once again to the breath-misted window. "Please leave."

"With all due respect my Prince, you are assuredly _not_ on your way," she insisted politely, her gold hair falling across her face. "Your father was explicitly clear on this matter. I am to escort you to his study at once."

Legolas surged to his feet, rather more bemused than annoyed, and strode past her rather airily. She scuttled after him, seemingly to maintain the vague pretence of escorting him to Thranduil's quarters. When Legolas reached his father's study he thrust the door open without knocking, leaving Glórien lingering awkwardly in the corridor behind him.

Thranduil sat at his desk, cool and straight-backed, with his hands folded neatly in front of him. Tirion was also present, standing rigidly before his father's desk. He turned with a jolt as Legolas entered the room, surveying his brother a little icily with his slate-grey eyes. Galdír sat quietly on Thranduil's left side, also eyeing Legolas somewhat sourly. The taut, wintry silence put the young Prince immediately on his guard. He wondered gloomily whether he was about to receive some kind of punishment – he did not recall having done anything to deserve it, but it was difficult to be certain.

"It is a matter of great importance I would discuss with you both, my sons," the King said gravely, his gaze passing from one brother to the other. "It has come to my attention that in my absence, a certain – contention – has grown between you."

"It was through no fault of mine, father," Tirion interjected quietly.

"He speaks the truth, Sire," Galdír confirmed coldly. "It is the young Prince Legolas who has instigated the greater part of the conflict…"

"Silence!" Thranduil rapped sharply. "I care nothing for what has gone before. I wish only to put an end to this idiocy."

"If I might object, Sire," Tirion protested, casting his brother a sullen glance. "I have attempted on numerous occasions to heal whatever division has arisen between us, and my young brother has blankly _refused_ to comply."

"You shall _both_ comply to my wishes now," Thranduil snapped. "I entreat you both to forget whatever has passed between you, and make amends at once. You frankly have no choice in the matter, for I will not have my sons skirmishing like common ruffians! From what I hear, the rift between you has been quite the talk of the kingdom these past years, and I am thoroughly ashamed of you both for tarnishing the dignity of our family name in such a way."

"I apologise, Sire," Tirion said humbly, after a long and stilted pause.

Legolas lowered his eyes and tried – rather half-heartedly – to look contrite for his father's benefit.

"Very well. I wish to hear no more of this foolish matter from either one of you," Thranduil continued, his eyes chill and sharp as flint. "Is that clear?"

Legolas and Tirion both nodded, without casting so much as a glance at one another.

"And now, if you others will excuse us, I wish to speak with Legolas in private," Thranduil requested icily.

Tirion complied at once, seemingly eager to escape. He bowed low to Thranduil, inclined his head nominally to his brother, and strode silently from the room with his arms fixed to his sides, and his white-knuckled fists clenched. Galdír departed reluctantly, flinging an acidic glance at Legolas as he marched past him. Legolas raised his eyes hesitantly to meet his father's. Thranduil did not look as furious as he had feared; yet an indecipherable expression seemed to drift across the King's unyielding features. The young Prince could not help but feel slightly nervous. His father never failed to inject a sense of awkward restraint into situations like this. The air seemed to thrum with a complex kind of tension, underpinned by the faint threat of anger. "I have received much information, pertaining to the manner in which you have conducted yourself over these past years," Thranduil began quietly. "Among other things, I am informed that you have been attempting to usurp your brother's position of authority."

Legolas' eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Thranduil raised a stiff hand to silence him.

"Do not fear," the King continued inflectionlessly. "I know a blatant falsehood when I hear it. Even Galdír – who, as I am sure you are quite aware, holds you not in the highest regard – has dismissed these particular rumours as the empty fallacies they are. I wish you to know, my son, that I am ready to overlook these foolish reports. However, I might also add that rumours of your insolence, aggression, and general insubordination have been frankly ubiquitous. Do you deny that in my absence, you have wantonly disobeyed your brother's instructions, and spurned his every attempt to reason with you?"

Legolas' gaze sank to the floor. He could devise no reply that would be both credible, and satisfactory to his father's demands.

"Very well," Thranduil resumed after a brief pause. "I do not understand the particulars of the matter, yet I doubt they are of any great import. Consider this day a fresh beginning – an opportunity to leave this childish folly behind you, once and for all. You are set to Come of Age in little over a year, and your more juvenile tendencies, which up until now have obviously been indulged to an unacceptable degree, will no longer be tolerated with such leniency. I shall reproach you no further on the subject, yet if you continue to behave in such a shameful and inappropriate fashion, I shall be most _greatly_ displeased. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sire," he answered carefully. "Of course."

As usual, Legolas allowed his father's tedious lecture to wash effortlessly over him, leaving very little impression or residue of meaning in its wake. Such was his yearning to escape this tiresome conversation that he was willing to speak whatever empty words Thranduil wished to hear in order to appease him. He wished only to return to his chamber, and sleep off the dreary after-effects of all the ale he had consumed the previous night. The King fixed his son with an intense stare, while Legolas gazed sullenly at the open window, and the grey-painted heavens beyond. A knotted swathe of thunderheads muffled the wide, wet sky, slowly darkening with the omen of unshed rain.

"There is one further matter I would discuss with you," Thranduil announced, a curious severity creeping into his voice. "It has come to my attention that you have been paying visits to one Lady Tamiel, the wife of the deceased Lord Airendîr."

"Lord Airendîr is _dead_?" Legolas blurted out, his eyes wide with shock.

"Aye, he fell during the Siege of Barad-dûr," the King answered darkly. "Yet that is no concern of yours whatsoever. Legolas, I forbid you from _ever_ visiting that woman again."

"_Why_?" Legolas demanded loudly, more out of surprise than fury.

"Do not raise your voice to me, Legolas."

"You owe me an explanation at the very least," Legolas exclaimed incredulously. "You have no right–"

"_I have every right!_" Thranduil bellowed, thrusting back his chair and drawing himself angrily to his feet. "I am your father, and in this matter I shall brook no disobedience! You are not to see her ever again, and that is my final word. Now be gone!"

Legolas stood frozen and senseless for a moment, staring mutely at his father. He could not recall ever having seen Thranduil so enraged, particularly without he himself having done something to warrant or provoke it. Neither was the King generally prone to such volatile and seemingly irrational outbursts.

"Be _gone_!" Thranduil growled again, his face reddening.

Legolas turned and strode wordlessly from his father's study, caught somewhere between disbelieving rage and supreme confusion. He paused in the hallway as the door clicked closed behind him, trying to make sense of what had just transpired. He jolted with shock as something moved in his peripheral vision, turning and beholding his sister, Lilithen, lurking against the wall to the left of the stone lintel. He almost exclaimed aloud as Lilithen seized him by the sleeve and hauled him firmly along the dark gloomy corridor. She relinquished her grip as they gained a safe distance from their father's study, and peered around them beadily to check they were alone.

"Aren't you a little old and respectable for such clandestine tricks? I thought you had long outgrown your perverse love of eavesdropping." Legolas commented, arching an eyebrow at his rather dastardly sister.

"Hardly," she replied, grinning. "I've simply grown rather better at it! I gain most of my pleasure from snooping, these days. There's precious little else to occupy myself with in this place."

"A curious mind, you have," Legolas responded, mystified. "I expect you witnessed the whole encounter, then."

"The conclusion only," she replied. "You possess a true talent for infuriating our good father, do you not?"

"I've done little enough to warrant his rage!"

"Now there's a lie," Lilithen scoffed. "Forging a friendship with Lady Tamiel was scarcely going to please him."

"_Why_?" Legolas demanded agitatedly. "I know our father has never been on intimate terms with our mother's kin, but I have not heard that the strife between them was so very awful. He maintains contact with our mother's parents, after all – a message arrived from Lord Mithen only last week! Why should Tamiel be any different?"

"You utter dunce, Legolas!" Lilithen exclaimed. "They were once on extremely intimate terms! Our father was _betrothed_ to Lady Tamiel, before he knew our mother."

Legolas opened his mouth to reply, but his mind fell suddenly blank. He turned away from his sister, and drew a deep breath. His heart seemed suddenly to beat very fast, reverberating madly within the walls of his skull.

"How did you hear of this?" he murmured strickenly.

"I hear many things in the course of a day's lurking," she jested, with a sad sort of smile.

"The whole kingdom must know of it," Legolas remarked after a moment's consideration. "All royal betrothals are made public."

"Oh, it's universally known," Lilithen agreed quietly. "Of course, no one ever discusses the matter openly in our presence. I've overheard the servants gossiping about it rather a lot though."

"Why was the engagement broken?" Legolas asked hurriedly, his mind roving in jagged leaps, attempting desperately to fathom this new, absurd information.

"No one seems to know," she shrugged. "It's a source of great mystery apparently, which, I suppose, is why it remains a chief topic of conversation. It was quite the intrigue, as I'm sure you can imagine." Lilithen sighed heavily, as though suddenly drained of all her usual exuberance. She cast her brother a sideways glance. "Are you going to obey our father's command, and stay away from her?"

"I – I don't know."

"He will be furious if you go against him on this," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "And we'll all suffer for it, most likely. I do wish that for the first time in all your life, Legolas, you would simply do as you are told." With that, she turned and strode off along the corridor. Legolas stood mute and frozen, rooted to the spot long minutes after his sister's footfalls had sifted off into silence.


End file.
